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It just kept happening: he'd meet a Katherine, and like her. She'd like him back. And then it would end.

The rooster crowed again. Cock-a-doodle-don't, motherfugger, Colin mumbled. But the rooster cock-a-doodle-did.

Colin Singleton's type was not physical but linguistic: he liked Katherines. And not Katies or Kats or Kitties or Cathys or Rynns or Trinas or Kays or Kates or, God forbid, Catherines. K-A-T-H-E-R-I-N-E. He had dated nineteen girls. All of them had been named Katherine. And all of them- every single solitary one- had dumped him.

"Is the real problem here the genius thing or the Katherine thing?"

But still, the thought lurked out there, just beyond the reach of his headlights: he'd been dumped.
By a girl named Katherine. For the nineteenth time.

At length Mr. Baggins could bear it no longer. "Confound you, Smaug, you worm!" he squeaked aloud. "Stop playing hide-and-seek! Give me a light, and then eat me, if you can catch me!"

It is almost dark so that its vastness can only be dimly guessed, but rising from the near side of the rocky floor there is a great glow. The glow of Smaug!

He felt a different person, and much fiercer and bolder in
spite of an empty stomach, as he wiped his sword on the grass and put it back into its sheath "I will give you a name," he said to it, "and I shall call you Sting."

Bilbo found himself running round and round (as he thought) and calling and calling: "Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, Gloin, Fili, Kili, Bombur, Bifur, Bofur, Dwalin, Balin, Thorin Oakenshield!"

"I am sending Mr. Baggins with you. I have told you before that he has more about him than you guess, and you will find that out before long. So cheer up Bilbo and don't look so glum. Cheer up Thorin and Company! This is your expedition after all. Think of the treasure at the end, and forget the forest and the dragon, at any rate until tomorrow morning!"

"I am Gandalf," said the wizard. "Never heard of him," growled the man. "And what's this little fellow?" he said, stooping down to frown at the hobbit with his bushy black eyebrows. "That is Mr.Baggins, a hobbit of good family and unimpeachable reputation." said Gandalf.

Suddenly up came Gollum and whispered and hissed:
"Bless us and splash us, my precioussss! I guess it's a choice feast; at least a tasty morsel it'd make us, gollum!" And when he said gollum he made a horrible swallowing noise in his throat. That is how he got his name, though he always called himself 'my precious'.

"Let me see: one--that's Thorin; two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven; where are Fili and Kili? Here they are! Twelve, thirteen-and here's Mr. Baggins: fourteen! Well, well! it might be worse, and then again it might be a good deal better.

I wish I was at home in my nice hole by the fire, with the kettle just beginning to sing! It was not the last time that he wished that!

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

"I spend my every waking moment picking up the pieces of the lives destroyed by evil people. What more do you want me to do?"

"That is sickening," I said with quiet anger.

"The warden's little pet likes to hurt people."

I opened the morning's Washington Post and was shocked todiscover myself on the front page. The headline read, "Murder in the morgue,"

~ Why are there always spelling mistakes in Cornwell's earlier books?

In exchange for information, he did the one thing that not one of us wants to do.
He allowed the monster to connect with him.

After all, I was supposed to handle death better than anyone. Dr. Kay Scarpetta, the expert.

"Here." He placed a small paper bag on my desk.
"Happy reading."

It did not appear that her body had been moved after death, and the skin did not blanch when pressed.
She had been dead at least twelve hours.

"No, there isn't a dead body in there ...."

"....just like we always do after our children ride the Sparky."

Door mijn gedachten op te schrijven, begon ik op een
gegeven moment patronen te herkennen. Gek van angst was ik soms, maar ik wás de angst. Dus dan word je gek van jezelf. Een mooie woordspeling, want ik ben helemaal niet zo gek van mezelf.

Mijn hoofd en lichaam
dansen weer een
angstaanjagende
tango.

Mijn hart (gaat kapot)
Mijn hart gaat heel snel, misschien
gaat hij daarom wel kapot
Mijn hart klopt, omdat ik daardoor
leef. Dat is een mooi gegeven.