“Only now, when it is too late, do I long for Dearth. I was a misbegotten child of bad blood and bile, and I mistook my own orneriness for cleverness. I presumed to know what happiness was - something I could possess, like a marble, or a man. Something I could only find elsewhere. But just when I started to find it at home, I outfoxed myself and lost it forever.” Home Book:The Winter Without Milk: Whimsical and Cerebral Short Stories – Reimagining Oedipus, Lady Macbeth, Scheherezade Source: The Winter Without Milk: Whimsical and Cerebral Short Stories – Reimagining Oedipus, Lady Macbeth, Scheherezade