Mrs. Windemere always had a cup of hot coffee waiting for me. Black, which, she said, was the only way to drink it if you wanted to be awake to serve the god of Creativity.

There is no Art made without power, and there is no reason for Art to be made except for power.

Because let me tell you, it was a happy ending.

It was a Saturday that you somehow knew was going to be one of the last beautiful days of fall. The sun was shining hot, like it thought it was still July, and November drizzles were a whole season away. The sky was blue and a few white clouds were easing themselves along like they didn’t care. The grass was warm and sweet, like April, but the trees hadn’t forgotten it was October. They were all on fire, and behind their leaves, the birds were singing their last songs.

Thanks for what?” he said. “Everything,” I said.

That’s the Teacher Gene at work, giving its bearer an extra sense. It’s a little frightening. Maybe that’s how people decide to become teachers. They have that extra sense, and once they have it, and know that they have it, they don’t have any choice except to become a teacher.

When Mr. Ferris found out about the Broadway play, Clarence didn’t stop rocking during the whole lab.

You know how that feels?

In the whole story of the world, bananas have never once been a special treat.

No one talked because we all wanted to scream.