Wax Poetic Quotes

Have I ever waxed poetic about the glory that is the fuzzy-chested vampire wearing nothing but cowboy boots?

I wax poetic On the beauty of sewers Real short poem. Done

I am highly suspicious of attempts to brightside human suffering, especially suffering that—as in the case of almost all infectious diseases—is unjustly distributed. I’m not here to criticize other people’s hope, but personally, whenever I hear someone waxing poetic about the silver linings to all these clouds, I think about a wonderful poem by Clint Smith called “When people say, ‘we have made it through worse before.’” The poem begins, “all I hear is the wind slapping against the gravestones / of those who did not make it.” As in Ibn Battuta’s Damascus, the only path forward is true solidarity—not only in hope, but also in lamentation.

We all have a god and a poet inside us. The poet, the human; the god, the divine. It is by the grace of our god that we can find the divine inspiration with which to wax poetic about our human experiences.

I've never heard anyone come back from downtown Baltimore waxing poetic about the authenticity of poverty.

Without a conscious thought to do so, he went down on his knees in front of her, grasping both her hands. If she wouldn’t look up at him, she could look down at him. Her tiny, surprised intake of breath caught in the air between them. He lifted her knuckles to his lips, aching so hard to touch some part of her. “Being away from you has been…hell. I could wax poetic and tell you it’s been like being torn away from my own soul, or missing a shard of my heart, but in the end it’s been absolute torment. I’m missing all those things if I’m not with you.

I'd call it a brilliant success. All those journalists are going to be so disappointed when they find out they missed it." "They'll still have plenty to report on still. They don't need to intrude on Wolf and Scarlet's privacy anymore in order to do it." "Are you going to hold a press conference in place of the wedding in a couple of days? Tell the world about your first foray into matrimonial officiating? Wax poetic about the historical importance of such a union?" He turned his head and smirked down at her. "Nope. But I might tell them what an honor it was for me to be able to marry two of my closest friends, who happen to love each other very much." Her grin widened. "That won't satisfy them at all." "I know. That's half the appeal.

Pinot, the most romantic of wines, with so voluptuous a perfume, so sweet an edge, and so powerful a punch that, like falling in love, they make the blood run hot and the soul wax embarrassingly poetic.

satisfactory husband that he was, he was a man and not one inclined to wax poetic about a day of cupcakes and movies.

I wax poetic On the beauty of sewers Real short poem. Done

None of the ginkgo's aesthetic qualities are all that different from those of other trees. I could just as easily wax poetic about the beauty of beech trees, or the majesty of ancient sugar pines. But I think that ginkgos are just unusual enough for the occasional human to take notice of them. It's not that any particular tree or breed of dog or varietal or rose is objectively superior to its peers, they just happen to be the creatures that momentarily capture our flickering attention. As soon as humans take open-hearted notice of anything in the natural world, we find reason to love it.

A valley full of genuine suffering, and of joys that often turn out to be false, and so incredibly tumultuous that it takes something God only knows how outrageous to cause a lasting stir. But here and there some immense heaping up of vices and virtues turns mere sorrow grand and solemn, and their very sight makes even selfishness and personal advantage stop and feel pity - though that notion of pity is much like some tasty fruit that gets gobbled right up. Civilization's high-riding chariot, like the believer-crushing car of the idol Juggernaut, barely slows down when it comes to a heart a bit harder to crack, and if such a heart gets in the way it's pretty quickly smashed, and on goes the glorious march.[...] After you've read all about Pere Goriot's miserable secrets, you'll have yourself a good dinner and blame your indifference on the author, scolding him for exaggeration, accusing him of having waxed poetic. Ah, but let me tell you: this drama is not fictional, it's not a novel. All is true - so true you'll be able to recognize everything that goes into it in your own life, perhaps even in your heart.

Smokers always waxed poetic about the ritual of it, how a large part of the satisfaction was packing the box and pulling the foil wrapper and plucking an aromatic stick. They claimed they loved the lighting, the ashing, the feeling of being able to hold something between their fingers. That was all well and good, but there was nothing quite like actually smoking it: Leigh loved inhaling. To pull with your lips on that filter and feel the smoke drift across your tongue, down your throat, and directly into your lungs was to be transported momentarily to nirvana. She remembered- every day- how it felt after the first inhale, just as the nicotine was hitting her bloodstream. A few seconds of both tranquility and alertness, together, in exactly the right amounts. Then the slow exhale- forceful enough so that the smoke didn't merely seep from your mouth but not so energetic that it disrupted the moment- would complete the blissful experience.

G took her hand in his and traced his finger over the delicate skin of her arm. What she didn't realize was that he was scrawling the words of a poem he had recently written. It was inspired by his lady and he had spent many long hours trying to find the words that adequately conveyed the feelings of his heart. There were many false starts, because at first he tried to capture the moment a horse fell in love with a ferret. Shall I compare thee to a barrel to apples? Thou art more hairy, but sweeter inside. Rough winds couldn't keep me from taking you to chapel, When finally a horse would take a bride... And then he tried to wax poetic about the ferret alone ... Shall I compare thee to a really large rat? Thou art more longer, with less disease. One would never mistake you for a listless cat ... Nor a filthy dog, because my dog has fleas. He could never confess his passion for poetry with those poetry examples.

Look at me." I stood in front of both of them. To Liz I said, “You and Davis are adorable together.” I moved to Chloe. “And you and Gavin are—” She raised her eyebrows at me. “—interesting together. You can’t let my fight with Nick ruin your relationships with your hot boyfriends. Come on, now. My fight with Nick has been going on for years. It’s like this black hole, with gravity so strong that not even light can escape, sucking in winter breaks and dates and whole relationships, until the world—are you listening to me?” When I’d started waxing poetic, Chloe’s attention had wandered around the room. I grabbed her chin and turned her face to me again. “Until the very world is devoid of love!” “It’s not that bad,” Nick’s voice came faintly through the locker room wall. We all looked at one another.

Love and heartbreak have been around since time immemorial, and many literary greats and prominent personalities have waxed poetic about it... The best thing that i have learned from love and heartbreak is that lies don’t end relationships. Usually, the truth does. c'est la vie.

I have waxed poetic about the thrill of human interaction many times before, particularly as it applies to live music, because it takes us from the one-dimensional virtual experience to the three-dimensional tangible experience, ultimately reassuring us that this life is real and that we are not alone.

Harry waxes poetic about magic. He'll go on and on about how it comes from your feelings, and how it's a deep statement about the nature of your soul, and then he'll whip out some kind of half-divine, half-insane philosophy he's cobbled together from the words of saints and comic books about the importance of handling power responsibly.

At this point I feel I would be remiss to not mention the prevalence of a specific kind of person who enters the field of book publishing. This is the English lit major who never should have left academia, a genius who has read all of V.S. Naipaul but can’t photocopy title pages right side up. This person is very thin, possibly vegan, probably Ivy League. He or she feels as if answering the phone in a chipper voice is a form of legalized prostitution. He or she has a single quirky fashion piece, usually red or black, and waxes poetic about typewriters and the British, having never truly known either. Regardless of sex, they all want to be David Foster Wallace when they grow up.

Remain Healthy All Day: Drink a spoonful of oil every morning. Reach up with your arms and extend your body to its full height. Use a warm towel to dry the cat. Consider a philosophical idea larger than your area of expertise. Avoid getting cancer. Chalk up bad decisions to outside influences. Don't take your father too seriously. Play a game where you close your eyes very tightly, and when you open your eyes, you have amnesia and you must draw the details of your life from your surroundings. Give up smoking, drinking, and poetic verse. Remind yourself how important you are to your friends or at least your animals. Wax the floor in socks. Enter into a healthy, monogamous relationship. Consider briefly the idea of a soulmate. Light an entire box of matches and throw it into the sink. Hold a metal rod to the heavens and beg for whatever comes next.

Melinda was still stuck on the 24 thing. “And I don’t see you grabbing the remote away from me when that countdown clock starts chiming,” she said to Pete. “Unless it’s to get a quick check of the scores on Monday nights.” Nick’s ears perked up at the mention of scores. Sports. Now there was a topic upon which he could wax poetic. “Too bad Monday night football is over,” he lamented to Pete. “But there’s always basketball. Who are you eying for the Final Four?” Pete looked mildly embarrassed as he gestured to Melinda. “She’s, um, referring to the scores on Dancing with the Stars.” “He likes it when they do the paso doblé,” Melinda threw in. “The dance symbolizes the drama, artistry, and passion of a bullfight. It’s quite masculine,” Pete said. “Except for the sequins and spray tans,” Melinda added. Pete clapped his hands together, ignoring this. “How about you, Nick? Are you a fan of the reality television performing arts?

It's rich. And smooth. And thick. And fatty, but in a good way. Like butter, but with a deeper, fuller, nuttier flavor." Max's inky black pupils start to dilate as he gazes down at me, his mouth cracked open, like he's hypnotized and intrigued at once. I cease breathing. He clears his throat. "Damn..." I nod quickly. "On hot, crusty bread, it is divine. You need to try it." He nods right back, like he's in a trance. I'm in a trance too. I can't seem to stop looking at him as I wax poetic about one of my favorite food combinations. "How is it served?" he asks, his voice between a groan and a growl. "The marrow, I mean." I watch, mesmerized at the slow movement along his stubbled throat. I swear I can feel my skin tingling as my internal temperature rises. Who knew talking about bone marrow could get me this worked up? "Sometimes they cut the bone lengthwise and you can just scrape your knife along the hollow part of the bone and out comes the marrow," I say. "And sometimes they cut it into chunks and the marrow's in the middle, so you scrape out as much as you can, but there's almost always some left, so the best way to get it out is to just put the bone in your mouth and suck it out, really get your tongue in the hole and lick and...

Afer a little time, men did what they always do. They didn’t try to understand, they tried to explain. They made me earthly. They branded me woman. Then they saw things in me that didn’t mesh well with woman. They saw parts of me they didn’t understand and they broke them off. They called me a hundred different names, an epithet for everything. Couldn’t even bother trying to comprehend it all together—that I could be bloody and beautiful, that I could be divine and approachable. Men wrote the stories of my birth as if they were standing on the shore when I was spat up onto it. They picked up their pens and waxed poetic and nobody questioned it. Nobody asked me instead.

Chapter One: The Dawn and the Dread Heartbeat, heartbeat comes from Valhallan way, To meet down in judgment, to ply its trade. Two →swords← to join in worthy cross, Actions to be rendered, one to be lost. She did come now from ’yond northern slope, A day of reckoning did she again once hope. A devout meeting was her qwesterly bane, To stay her hand was to go insane. St. Kari of the Blade to meet her past, A wicked enemy, peerless of match. Rode Kari she her charger on down, Past the Dead Land where Gaul sat crowned. A killing job, yea, she desired to lastly kill, To set things right so her heart might lie still. Upon the mist and roaring plain, She entered in, a soul uncontained. A fierce wind in deed, and forever freed, Enemies she annihilhates (’tis hur’ creed). Her own advanced guard of a sort, Multitudes to follow in her report. Know this Valkyrie from on cold, An ancient maiden soft and bold. A warrior spirit from Ages past, A fragmented mind like broken glass. Solid in stature this eternal framed being, Yet crippled within from internaled bleedings. A sword saint so refined in the poetic art, A noble character yet with a banshee’s heart. Rhythmed horse now to the beats, Kari emboldened amid the sleet. Beyond the mountain she does come, Unto southern fields wherein rules hot sun. Far from that murderous Deadlands ground, The land up swells; the dead still abound. Traverses she those bygones of leprous civilizations Those cities crumbled by the exhalted of oblivions. Stark traces etched now bare in the land, That are no more again, save dust in the hand. A cool stream now in desert sans (Does more good when one is damned). Stopped she her mount to admire the flow, A lovely stream with skeletons packed below. Blue air whisps; dragon flied motion. Flintsteel striking!!! Sparked of commotion. Cold water chortles rushtish with tint, Told of past carnage, it whetted her glint. Fallen warriors, they are no more, Swirls and eddies mark their discord. Gurgled shouts slung and gathered, Faces glazed while steel lathered. Refreshing though it was to her mouth, She smelled an air; she flared about. Came up that ridge of loud, sanded hill, Below a man and his half-score of kills. Kari’s eyes waxed in smug contempt, Possibilities ran deep with no repent . . . On Kari, Valkyrie, Cold Steel Eternity Vol. II

Before the game, he [Vin Scully] waxed poetic about Wrigley Field: She stands alone at the corner of Clark and Addison, this dowager queen, dressed in basic black and pearls, seventy-five years old, proud head held high and not a hair out of place, awaiting yet another date with destiny, another time for Mr. Right. She dreams as old ladies will of men gone long ago. Joe Tinker. Johnny Evers. Frank Chance. And of those of recent vintage like her man Ernie. And the Lion [Leo Durocher]. And Sweet Billy Williams. And she thinks wistfully of what might have been, and the pain is still fresh and new, and her eyes fill, her lips tremble, and she shakes her head ever so slightly. And then she sighs, pulls her shawl tightly around her frail shoulders, and thinks, This time, this time it will be better.

Many real-world Northwestern endonyms have European origins, such as “Portland,” “Victoria,” “Bellingham,” and “Richland.” To address this phenomenon while also contributing a sense of the fantastic, I chose to utilize a forgotten nineteenth century European artificial language as a source. Volapük is clumsy and awkward, but shares a relationship with English vocabulary (upon which it is based) that I was able to exploit. In my fictional universe, that relationship is swapped, and English (or rather, “Vendelabodish”) words derive from Volapük (“Valütapük”). This turns Volapük into an ancient Latin-like speech, offering texture to a fictional history of the colonizers of my fictional planets. Does one have to understand ancient Rome and medieval Europe and America’s Thirteen Colonies to understand the modern Pacific Northwest? Nah. But exploring the character and motivations of a migrating, imperial culture certainly sets the stage for explaining a modernist backlash against the atrocities that inevitably come with colonization.             The vocabulary of Volapük has also given flavor that is appropriate, I feel, to the quasi-North American setting. While high fantasy worlds seem to be built with pillars of European fairy tales, the universe of Geoduck Street is intentionally built with logs of North American tall tales. Tolkien could wax poetic about the aesthetic beauty of his Elvish words all he wanted, since aesthetic beauty fits the mold of fairies and shimmering palaces, but Geoduck Street needed a “whopper-spinning” approach to artificial language that would make a flapjack-eating Paul Bunyan proud. A prominent case in point: in this fictional universe, the word “yagalöp” forms the etymological root of “jackalope.” “Yag,” in the original nineteenth century iteration of Volapük, means “hunting,” while “löp” means “summit.” Combining them together makes them “the summit of hunting.” How could a jackalope not be a point of pride among hunting trophies?

After Marcus had wiped her perspiring body with a cool, damp cloth, he dressed her in his discarded shirt, which held the scent of his skin. He brought her a plate containing a poached pear, and a glass of sweet wine, and even allowed her to feed him a few bites of the silky-soft fruit. When her appetite was sated, Lillian set aside the empty plate and spoon, and turned to snuggle against him. He rose on one elbow and looked down at her, his fingers playing idly in her hair. “Are you sorry that I wouldn’t let St. Vincent have you?” She gave him a puzzled smile. “Why would you ask such a thing? Surely you’re not having pangs of conscience.” Marcus shook his head. “I am merely wondering if you had any regrets.” Surprised and touched by his need for reassurance, Lillian toyed with the dark curls on his chest. “No,” she said frankly. “He is attractive, and I do like him… but I didn’t want him.” “You did consider marrying him, however.” “Well,” she admitted, “it did cross my mind that I would like to be a duchess— but only to spite you.” A smile flashed across his face. He retaliated with a punishing nip at her breast, causing her to yelp. “I couldn’t have borne it,” he admitted, “seeing you married to anyone but me.” “I don’t think Lord St. Vincent will have any difficulty finding another heiress to suit his purposes.” “Perhaps. But there aren’t many women with fortunes comparable to yours… and none with your beauty.” Smiling at the compliment, Lillian crawled halfway over him and hitched one leg over his. “Tell me more. I want to hear you wax lyrical about my charms.” Levering himself to a sitting position, Marcus lifted her with an ease that made her gasp, and settled her until she straddled his hips. He stroked a fingertip along the pale skin that was exposed at the open vee of the shirt. “I never wax lyrical,” he said. “Marsdens are not a poetic sort. However…” He paused to admire the sight of the long-limbed young woman who sat astride him while her hair trailed to her waist in tangled streamers. “I could at least tell you that you look like a pagan princess, with your tangled black hair and your bright, dark eyes.” “And?” Lillian encouraged, linking her arms loosely around his neck. He set his hands at her slender waist and moved them down to grasp her strong, sleek thighs. “And that every erotic dream I’ve ever had about your magnificent legs pales in comparison to the reality.” “You’ve dreamed about my legs?” Lillian wriggled as she felt his palms slide up her inner thighs in a lazy, teasing path. “Oh yes.

What was I saying? I was waxing poetic and working toward pretentious, if I recall. Oh, yes, the smell of a fine, fall football Saturday. Spring is such a girl. She gets credit for love, hope, renewal, and the dream of what might be. Summer is all, ‘Hey dude, it’s warm; let’s party.’ It’s truly the fraternity brother of the four seasons. Fall, to me, seems like the bad-ass who is about to hop on his Harley and drive off into the sunset because he’s not going to listen to that bitch winter go on and on about how nobody likes her and the snow drifts make her look fat.

Turpin waxed poetic about real coffee beans early on in our friendship, calling them true nuggets of God’s grace, their demise proof of how far we’d fallen as a species.

Soon I would be stuck between Emmie and Calypso discussing kale-growing techniques and Leo and Josephine waxing poetic about carburetors. I couldn’t win.

The truth was, Ive had been slipping out of focus for years. Apple was no longer his beautiful creation. He was no longer the star of the show. The cameras no longer clicked for him, and news anchors no longer invited him to wax poetically about design. The outside world wanted to know what the company was going to do about tariffs, immigration, and privacy. They wanted Cook. The creative soul of Apple had been eclipsed by the machine.

She thought about how silly her History of Art teacher had sounded when she’d waxed poetic about seeing the Mona Lisa (when Kat knew for a fact that the Louvre’s original had been replaced with a fake in 1862).

Apparently, I was now taking note of the fucking scenery and waxing poetic. I wanted my balls back, but I wanted them slamming against Grace’s pussy even more.

The birth doesn’t make me want to wax poetic. Maybe this was supposed to be a turning point for me, wherein I saw the power of the female body and the bonds of motherhood and daughterhood that link us all. But I still thought it was pretty disgusting.

I wax poetic On the beauty of sewers Real short poem. Done WADING SHOULDER-DEEP

I wax poetic On the beauty of sewers Real short poem.

She’d purposely stayed away from her mother during this time. She’d feared what her mother might expect from her. But now, she had the reverse problem. Hazel found she expected something from her father. Particularly given the fact that he was all she had going at the moment. She wanted an increased profundity in manner, maybe. When were they going to have tearful all-night talks where he spoke of his numerous regrets in parenting her, and begged her forgiveness? When was he going to wax poetic about what a celebration her existence, despite her failed marriage and current lack of employment, ignited daily within his heart. When was he going to bequeath her diamonds of wisdom, gleamed from a near full term lifespan.

What are you doing?” “I am describing what I see.” “You are not. You’re . . . you’re waxing poetic about my arsehole.

Aunt Leighton waxes on poetically, a lecture that is so carefully constructed to have us hang off her every word. She is a storyteller, better than anyone I’ve ever seen or heard.

Unfortunately for you, I’m not someone who waxes poetic before I pull the trigger.

Love can play host to rich delusions. It stifles reality and skews the truth to meet our insatiable desire to be wanted, longed for, needed. It waxes poetic on destiny and soul mates with thoughts of forever and happily ever after pinned high on its wings. Love affords you the luxury of a unique brand of trust, an intimate level of confidence that solidifies two souls as one. It unifies them under the false banner of all things holy and right.

I won’t wax poetic about the land in a perfectionist sense: we work hard out here, and things constantly threaten the tiny equilibrium we’ve established in the market garden. Whatever peace we find is often hard won. But I stand firmly with Berry and Kingsolver and so many other writers who possess a deep need to step outside the city to find a place of calm. I don’t like the word “authentic”; at best, it’s divisive and antagonistic, implying one way of being is intrinsically better than another. But I do very much favour the notion of alignment. I’m convinced that at the heart of the matter lies a desire to draw what we do into alignment with how we live. Some of us aren’t in a place where we can live consistently on the land that holds our hearts, but come mishaps or miracles, we’re bound and determined to make that land as much a part of who we are as humanly possible.

Paeng leans back and rests his hand flat on the table. “Vince.” Blushing, he snaps at his friend. “I dropped the bra on the wet tarp and I guess I must have accidentally gotten paint on it and touched it to my cheek, okay?” Paeng is silent as Vince sighs. “I didn’t mean to take my upset out on you, sorry.” “No big. So, you fondled it. Was it good for you?” Paeng’s eyes glitter, making Vince’s anxiety flare. “I couldn’t help myself! The girl’s smoking hot and yet she doesn’t appear to own trashy underwear.” He feels all dreamy just thinking about it. “It’s simple and soft . . . it felt so nice. She’s not like any of the girls I’ve met before. She’s direct, feisty and artistic and I bet she’s really smart. She’s nothing like the usual MOM Girl and she’s not even my type. But her underwear is beautiful. She doesn’t wear slutty underwear because she doesn’t put on airs, and oh, God, that’s so attractive. What I wouldn’t give to see—” Paeng face palms Vince. “Dude. You are waxing poetic about cotton underwear like my sisters wear when they get their periods. It’s just underwear. It is not the key to Dani’s psyche. You are making the kind of assumptions about her that lead to expensive rings, one point two kids, and minivans. You are in trouble.

They then interviewed us, asking about our love of Qingdao, how we met, why we came. Having learned quickly what they wanted to hear, we answered with the obligatory enthusiasm. Patrick, in especially fine form, waxed the kind of cheesy poetic that put yen-signs in the eyes of the producers. On a seaside boardwalk, for example, they asked him a simple question about the appeal of Qingdao to which he replied with a philosophical metaphor on what he lovingly dubbed, “The Qingdao Mist,” a euphemism for the constant polluted haze that enveloped the city. He compared it to the dreamlike state of early love, when all landscapes are a pleasant blur of fuzzy details. I, trying not to laugh, vented my amusement in a wide, photographic smile.

ever bother the alleged Vicar of Christ as he waxed poetic about religious unity amongst belief systems with blatantly contradictory theologies? Let’s be real: We really doubt it, especially since this pope is already on record as saying that “proselytism is solemn nonsense, it makes no sense.”[439] So, dear reader, as the one with “two horns like a lamb” would have us believe, spread the word: The Great Commission has been officially cancelled by the President of the World.

He may not have his love, but his protagonist did. And the novel needed to wax poetic about love. That had to be the redemption for this sad and depressed man who had so little in his life. He had to die and find love to truly be alive. Just like Thomas had.

He waxed poetic over her gentle manners and soft voice. With all the sweet and kind descriptions he used, I half wonder if this girl is a kitten. Truly, Marie, I think he would have been miserable with me. I am too wild and passionate,” Cinderella said. Marie

Would you like to know what you’re like, puppy?” “Terrible? Inexperienced?” “Oh, God, no. With you… it’s like you’re reaching inside me and caressing my heart.” Hans looked at him, eyes wide. He’d never heard Thomas wax poetic before, and it was disconcerting. Is he falling for me? As soon as the thought occurred to him, Hans stomped on it like a bug. Some questions were best left unasked.

You sound surprised.” “Not surprised, really. It’s just that….” Heller flashed me a sheepish look. “I haven’t actually told him I love him.” “Really?” I assumed he had. Didn’t mates do that? “Really, and I don’t know why I haven’t since I started falling in love with him the moment I looked into those sexy gunmetal eyes of his. Gods, those eyes of his. It’s like rolling in catnip.” I leaned against my truck. Oh, this was almost too good. “Is this you waxing poetically?” “Don’t hate me because I have great hair and a way with words. Jeez, Remi, I do. I do love him. Wow.” Heller looked at me, a happy smile plastered on his face. “I feel so much lighter now that I said it. I love him.” “Of course you do. He’s your mate.” Heller’s smiled dipped. “It’s not that simple, and you damn well know it. Are you saying you love Marshell?” “Whoa, there.” I held up my hands—like that was going to stop him. “I just met him.

The ability to detect even familiar stimuli can usually be restored by a brief palate cleanser, which literally permits a recovery from desensitization sufficient to intensify a subsequent experience. It is hard for me to assess how much I am waxing poetic, but it seems to me that the brain’s ability—its need—to perceive by contrast may partly explain why our efforts to achieve perennial satisfaction have been largely unsatisfactory. Because the brain grades on a curve, endlessly comparing the present with what came just before, the secret to happiness may be unhappiness. Not unmitigated unhappiness, of course, but the transient chill that lets us feel warmth, the sensation of hunger that makes satiety so welcome, the period of near-despair that catapults us into the astonishing experience of triumph. The route to contentment is through contrast.

There was something just so reassuring about books. They had beginnings and middles and ends, and if you didn't like a part, you could just skip to the next chapter. If someone died, you could just stop on the last page before, and they'd live on forever. Happy endings were definite, evils defeated, and the good last forever. And books about travel? They promised wide-eyed wonders. They waxed poetically about the history and the culture of the places, like an anthropologist of once-in-a-lifetime experiences