I think everyone has been through this at least once in their life. Even so, it's not the kind of thing that happens every day.

There ought to be a name for that feeling of wanting to say a word, of remembering what it means and even a few of its letters, of almost seeing it there in your mind, and then, when you go to say it, nothing comes out at all — or worse, something else entirely does.

It is not that he disliked people. Luís Augusto de Almeida was easy to get along with, though somewhat quiet. The middle child of nine, he had learned not to compete for attention, partly because of his soft voice and slight frame, and partly because he enjoyed being alone. Which was almost always impossible. In the Almeida house, not a single room was ever free—even a brief bathroom break alone was a feat. "Luís Augusto, hurry out of the shower!"; "Luís Augusto, it is your t