It is a hard thing, and yet not so hard as you might think. Getting it out was easy; men are forever losing their souls by accident. But to cut it and fold it, bend it and break it, and fit it into a needle, well...
I remember that I did it, but I don't remember why. I wonder sometimes if I was always like this, porcupined, needle-souled; sharp, thin, cold and, if I'm being honest, a bit of a prick. Did I shape it to fit in the needle, or was a needle the only place it would fit?
Pinker on When Being Too Bright Ruins Writing
4 hours ago