Location 1671:

Michael stood firm, if somewhat wounded. His friends wrote their articles, they went to marches and listened to speeches, they debated the future of Marxism over coffee and strudel—but Michael heard an airy emptiness in their rhetoric. He didn’t accuse his friends of taking an easy road, but neither could he follow them. He was too honest a soul; he had never learned to deceive himself.



Location 2213:

The Jinni’s eyes opened, and he grinned weakly up at his employer. “Hello, Arbeely,” he croaked. “I’ve had the most wonderful evening.”



Location 9054:

“Helene, why are you writing like this?” I gave her a confused look—writing like what?—and she pointed out something that hadn’t occurred to me: my writing was out of step with my reading. I was a dyed-in-the-wool geek, and the books I adored most tended to be fantasy and sci-fi, or else fiction with a touch of the fantastic. So why, she repeated, wasn’t I writing that way?