Pamela Parson

“The Violins waltzed. The Cellos and Basses provided accompaniment. The Violas mourned their fate, while the Concertmaster showed off. The Flutes did bird imitations…repeatedly, and the reed instruments had the good taste to admire my jacket. The Trumpets held a parade in honor of our great nation, while the French Horns waxed nostalgic about something or other. The Trombones had too much to drink. The Percussion beat the band, and the Tuba stayed home playing cards with his landlady, the Harp, taking sips of warm milk a blue little cup.
“But the Composer is still dead.”
― Lemony Snicket, The Composer Is Dead

“Your punishment if you're a woman. Not loved enough.”
― Joyce Carol Oates, Blonde

“Composer” is a word which here means “a person who sits in a room, muttering and humming and figuring out what notes the orchestra is going to play.” This is called composing. But last night, the Composer was not muttering. He was not humming. He was not moving, or even breathing.
This is called decomposing.”
― Lemony Snicket, The Composer Is Dead

“Is death such a high price to pay, when you will die anyway?”
― Laurell K. Hamilton, Circus of the Damned