Bridge Is A Game For The Undivided

I Suppose, I Hoped, By Setting A Particularly Brutal Ancient Rite In The Present And In My Own Village To Shock The Story's Readers With A Graphic Dramatization Of The Pointless Violence And General Inhumanity In Their Own Lives.

All Cat Stories Start With This Statement: "my Mother, Who Was The First Cat, Told Me This...

It Might Be Suggested, And Not Easily Disproven That Anything, No Matter How Exotic, Can Be Believed By Someone. On The Other Hand, Abstract Belief Is Largely Impossible; It Is The Concrete, The Actuality Of The Cup, The Candle, The Sacrificial Stone, Which Hardens Belief; The Statue Is Nothing Until It Cries, The Philosophy Is Nothing Until The Philosopher Is Martyred.

It Was One Of Those Winter Days That Suddenly Dream Of Spring, When The Sky Is Blue And Soft And Clear, And The Wind Has Dropped Its Voice And Whispers Instead Of Screaming, And The Sun Is Out And The Trees Look Surprised, And Over Everything There Is The Faintest, Palest Tint Of Green.

She Walked Quickly Around Her One-room Apartment. After More Than Four Years In This One Home She Knew All Its Possibilities, How It Could Put On A Sham Appearance Of Warmth And Welcome When She Needed A Place To Hide In, How It Stood Over Her In The Night When She Woke Suddenly, How It Could Relax Itself Into A Disagreeable Unmade, Badly-put-together State, Mornings Like This, Anxious To Drive Her Out And Go Back To Sleep.