He Who Rides The Sea Of The

My Yesterdays Walk With Me. They Keep Step, They Are Gray Faces That Peer Over My Shoulder.

It May Be -- I Hope It Is -- Redemption To Guess And Perhaps Perceive That The Universe, The Hell Which We See For All Its Beauty, Vastness, Majesty, Is Only Part Of A Whole Which Is Quite Unimaginable.

Graham Greene At 82 Years Old Was Still Writing, And I Don't Think Anyone Can Deny The Force, The Expertise, And The Unique Quality Of His Writing, If You Take His Complete Oeuvre.

He Found Himself Understanding The Wearisomeness Of This Life,where Every Path Was An Improvisation And A Considerable Part Of One's Waking Life Was Spent Watching One's Feet.

I Play The Piano Passionately And Inaccurately. Indeed, I Worked Out The Other Day That Of My Seventy-five Years; I Have Spent At Least One Year Sitting On A Piano Stool.