Lawn looked down at his patient. "In the words of the philosopher Sceptum, the founder of my profession: am I going to get paid for this?
You promised me one night. I want you next to me tonight. We have the rest of our lives to be apart.
The summer night was settling upon the neighborhood like a dark lace veil, casting dappled shadows on the roofs and sidewalks and lawns.
It wasn't until I worked in the Perth Hospital kitchen in the 1970s that I began hearing stories about the ghosts that haunted their halls at night.
The night I was born, my great uncle Moanea, the village forester, shot a wolf. The villagers roasted it in the fire and fed the meat to the dogs.
When night comes on in a room lit by kerosene, any flicker of the flame can give the sense that darkness is about to triumph.
Plunder, ravage and kill; the secret works of the repugnant. Since the fall of man and brother killing brother, evil has owned the night.
And the bell jangled, the driver started. The bus whirled off, to the last stop, the lonely room, the lonely night.
Faith, he had learned that night in front of the flickering television, was most glorious when it was most untouched by reason.
It was strange, this toxic little vein, strange to stand above it, looking down at night, in a dangerous neighborhood, as if they were in love and entitled to such adventures.
The night was starless and very dark. Without doubt, in the gloom some mighty angel was standing, with outstretched wings, awaiting the soul.
It was interesting. Isabelle thought, the children that chose you. Some come through your body; others came in cars in the middle of the night.
A man, who needs you, will not come to visit you in the middle of the night. If he is there, definitely wants to stop you from being helpful.
The medicine is in the eye of the beholder and right now you be-holding a big ass glass of it. So, shut up and drink your whiskey.
Every reader exists to ensure for a certain book a modest immortality. Reading is, in this sense, a ritual of rebirth.
One book calls to another unexpectedly, creating alliances across different cultures and centuries.
In any of my pages in any of my books may life a perfect account of my secret experience of the world.
There is a line of poetry, a sentence in a fable, a word in an essay, by which my existence is justified; find that line, and immortality is assured.
What's your name?" "Emma Gould," she said. "What's yours?" "Wanted." "By all the girls or just the law?
Immaterial as water, too vast for any mortal apprehension, the Web's outstanding qualities allow us to confuse the ungraspable with the eternal.
That's your mom, right?" Pathik smiled. "She looks nicer than she did when she was dragging you away the other night.
