Sometimes I’m not sure whether I’m entirely human.
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I mean, I know I am. I shouldn’t think my mother is beyond sleeping with the fairies--no, that’s not how you say it. “Sleeping with the fairies” means dead. I shouldn’t think she’s beyond having sex with fairies, but if she did she’d boast about it. She’s never so much as hinted. She wouldn’t have said it was Daniel and made him marry her. . . .
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What I mean is, when I look at other people, other girls in school, and see what they like and what they’re happy with and what they want, I don’t feel as if I’m part of their species. And sometimes--sometimes I don’t care. I care about so few people, really. Sometimes it feels as if it’s only books that make life worth living, like on Halloween when I wanted to be alive because I hadn’t finished Babel 17. I’m sure it isn’t normal. I care more about the people in books than the people I see every day.

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