A Book Is A Device To Ignite

You Don't Put Your Life Into Your Books, You Find It There.

I Tried To Explain To Her The Significance Of The Great Poet, But Without Much Success, The Waste Land Not Figuring Very Largely In Mam's Scheme Of Things. "the Thing Is," I Said Finally, "he Won The Nobel Prize." "well," She Said, With That Unerring Grasp Of Inessentials Which Is The Prerogative Of Mothers, "i'm Not Surprised. It Was A Beautiful Overcoat."

Had Your Forefathers, Wigglesworth, Been As Stupid As You Are, The Human Race Would Never Have Succeeded In Procreating Itself.

Here I Sit, Alone At 60, Bald And Fat And Full Of Sin Cold The Seat, And Loud The Cistern As I Read The (harpic) (lysol) Tin

Authors, She Soon Decided, Were Probably Best Met Within The Pages Of Their Novels, And Were As Much Creatures Of The Reader's Imagination As The Characters In Their Books. Nor Did They Seem To Think One Had Done Them A Kindness By Reading Their Writings. Rather They Had Done One The Kindness By Writing Them.