Home Is So Sad. It Stays As

Dear, I Can't Write, It's All A Fantasy: A Kind Of Circling Obsession.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live. They Come, They Wake Us Time And Time Over. Theyare To Be Happy In: Where Can We Live But Days?

A Writer Can Have Only One Language, If Language Is Going To Mean Anything To Him.

One Of The Sadder Things, I Think, Is How Our Birthdays Slowly Sink: Presents And Parties Disappear, The Cards Grow Fewer Year By Year, Till, When One Reaches Sixty-five, How Many Care We're Still Alive?

Saki Says That Youth Is Like Hors D'oeuvres: You Are So Busy Thinking Of The Next Courses You Don't Notice It. When You've Had Them, You Wish You'd Had More Hors D'oeuvres.