Oh, Aye, Sassenach. I Am

The Most Irritating Thing About Cliches, I Decided, Was How Frequently They Were True.

What A Mystery Blood Was -- How Did A Tiny Gesture, A Tome Of Voice, Endure Through Generations Like The Harder Verities Of Flesh? He Had Seen It Again And Again, Watching His Nieces And Nephews Grow, And Accepted Without Thought The Ehoes Of Parent And Grandparent That Appeared For Brief Moments. The Shadow Of A Face Looking Back Through The Years -- That Vanished Again Into The Face That Was Now.

I Do Know It, My Own. Let Me Tell Ye In Your Sleep How Much I Love You. For There's No So Much I Can Be Saying To Ye While Ye Wake, But The Same Poor Words, Again And Again. While Ye Sleep In My Arms, I Can Say Things To Ye That Would Be Daft And Silly Waking, And Your Dreams Will Know The Truth Of Them. Go Back To Sleep, Mo Duinne.

At Last I Took One Big, Callused Hand And Slid Forward So I Knelt On The Boards Between His Knees. I Laid My Head Against His Chest, And Felt His Breath Stir My Hair. I Had No Words, But I Had Made My Choice. "'whither Thou Goest,'" I Said. "'i Will Go; And Where Thou Lodgest, I Will Lodge: Thy People Shall Be My People, And Thy God My God: Where Thou Diest, Will I Die, And There Will I Be Buried.' Be It Scottish Hill Or Southern Forest. You Do What You Have To; I'll Be There.

Character, I Think, Is The Single Most Important Thing In Fiction. You Might Read A Book Once For Its Interesting Plot—but Not Twice.