Happy endings aren't for cowards.

An ash-gray dog with a white blaze on its forehead burst onto the rough terrain of the market on the first Sunday in December, knocked down tables of fried food, overturned Indians' stalls and lottery kiosks, and bit four people who happened to cross its path.

It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.

The Rue du Coq d'Or, Paris, seven in the morning.

Sometimes when you work in advertising you'll get a product that's really garbage and you have to make it seem fantastic, something that is essential to the continued quality of life.

There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.