Its ceiling was crystal, around on the wall / Thickly studded were rubies and diamonds rare; / But purer than crystal, and brighter than all / Of the jewels adorning her glittering hall, / Was the mermaiden languishing there.

The walls were crystal, and they seemed to have hundreds of different-colored lights shifting behind them.

The uneven floor was crystal as well, as if there once had been huge crystals jutting up here, too, but ones that had been broken away and the surface crudely adzed.

"Crystal's pretty. The name, I mean."
Jewel shook her head. "It doesn't look like her. She looks like Beaver Cleaver." […]
Crys chuckled. For the first time since she'd planted herself fiercely on Lusa's driveway that morning she sounded clear and transparent, like a child. Like the crystal she was.

"No prob. I'm wired, anyway...Christa or Crystal. Why'd Kayla peg her for a stripper?"
"Because Gavin said she was a dancer," I said.
"Well," he said, "name a girl Crystal and what's more likely? That she'll get a Ph.D. in biomechanics, or end up shaking her tail for tips?"

Crystal just stood there with a semisad look on her face.

In this exhilarating and often hilarious book, David Crystal examines why we devote so much time and energy to language games, how professionals make a career of them, and how young children instinctively take to them.

He tells me he's been shooting crystal, which I already pretty much know because he does not bother to keep his sleeves rolled down over the needle tracks.

Crystal

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