Would It Hurt To Die?

I Think It's Alarming That People Believe That Success Enables One To Forget How Life Felt Before. As If One Could Simply Exchange One's Values.

Christmas Was Coming. One Morning In Mid-december, Hogwarts Woke To Find Itself Covered In Several Feet Of Snow. The Lake Froze Solid And The Weasley Twins Were Punished For Bewitching Several Snowballs So That They Followed Quirrell Around, Bouncing Off The Back Of His Turban.

Children Being Children, However, The Grotesque Hopping Pot Had Taken Hold Of Their Imaginations. The Solution Was To Jettison The Pro-muggle Moral But Keep The Warty Cauldron, So By The Middle Of The Sixteenth Century A Different Version Of The Tale Was In Wide Circulation Among Wizarding Families. In The Revised Story, The Hopping Pot Protects An Innocent Wizard From His Torch-bearing, Pitchfork-toting Neighbours By Chasing Them Away From The Wizard's Cottage, Catching Them And Swallowing Them Whole.

Be Ruthless About Protecting Writing Days, I.e., Do Not Cave In To Endless Requests To Have "essential" And "long Overdue" Meetings On Those Days. The Funny Thing Is That, Although Writing Has Been My Actual Job For Several Years Now, I Still Seem To Have To Fight For Time In Which To Do It. Some People Do Not Seem To Grasp That I Still Have To Sit Down In Peace And Write The Books, Apparently Believing That They Pop Up Like Mushrooms Without My Connivance. I Must Therefore Guard The Time Allotted To Writing As A Hungarian Horntail Guards Its Firstborn Egg.

You Place Too Much Importance... On The So-called Purity Of Blood! You Fail To Recognize That It Matters Not What Someone Is Born, But What They Grow To Be!