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“I bet I can get you relaxed enough that you sleep like you're on a cloud, basking in the sun.' I snorted again, rolling my eyes. 'You doubt me?' 'There's nothing anyone or anything in this world could do that would make that happen.' 'There is so much you don't know.' My eyes narrowed. 'That may be true, but that is one thing I do know.' 'You're wrong. And I can prove it.' 'Whatever,' I sighed. 'I can, and when I'm done, right before you drift off to sleep with a smile on your face, you're going to tell me I'm right,' he told me.”

“It turns me on when you're armed with something sharp.' 'There's something so entirely wrong with you.' He came around to my front. 'But you like what's wrong with me.' 'There is something wrong with me, too,' I looked up at him. 'Because I do.' 'I know.' He touched my cheek. 'I've always known you like that I enjoy when you make me bleed.”

“I put the withered leaf in my mouth first. Then I place the bone on the cut root where my tongue used to be, close my eyes, and concentrate. Immediately, I feel as though my chest is being squeezed, as though my ribs are cracking. Something is wrong. Something is wrong with me. I fall to my knees, palms pressed against the ice of the floor. Something seems to twist inside my chest, then split, like a fissure opening in a glacier. The hard knot of my magic, the part of me that has felt in danger of unravelling when I push myself too hard, splits completely apart. I gasp, because it hurts. It hurts so much my mouth opens on a scream I cannot make. It hurts so much that I black out. ... With astonishment, I realise my tongue is in my mouth. It feels odd to have it there. Thick and heavy. I cannot decide if it is swollen of if I am just oddly conscious of it. 'I'm scared,' I whisper to myself. Because it's true. Because I need to know if my tongue belongs to me and will say the things I mean it to. 'I'm so tired. I'm so tired of being scared.”

“There is a curious phenomenon in Western intellectual life, namely that of being right at the wrong time. To be right at the wrong time is far, far worse than having been wrong for decades on end. In the estimation of many intellectuals, to be right at the wrong time is the worst possible social faux pas; like telling an off-colour joke at the throning of a bishop. In short, it is in unforgivable bad taste. There was never a good time, for example, to be anti-communist. Those who early warned of the dangers of bolshevism were regarded as lacking in compassion for the suffering of the masses under tsarism, as well as lacking the necessary imagination to “build” a better world. Then came the phase of denial of the crimes of communism, when to base one’s anti-communism on such phenomena as organised famine and the murder of millions was regarded as the malicious acceptance of ideologically-inspired lies and calumnies. When finally the catastrophic failure of communism could no longer be disguised, and all the supposed lies were acknowledged to have been true, to be anti-communist became tasteless in a different way: it was harping on pointlessly about what everyone had always known to be the case. The only good anti-communist was a mute anti-communist.”