The ability to concoct plausible lies is a talent not to be underestimated. - Margaret Atwood

It's evening, one of those gray water-color washes, like liquid dust.

If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

The temptation is to stay inside; to subside into the kind of recluse whom neighborhood children regard with derision and little awe; to let the hedges and weeds grow up, to allow the doors to rust shut, to lie on my bed in some gown-shaped garment and let my hair lengthens and spread out over the pillow and my fingernails to sprout into claws, while candle wax drips onto the carpet. But long ago I made a choice between classicism and romanticism. I prefer to be upright and contained — an urn in daylight.