How Easy It Was To Lie When

January. It Was All Things. And It Was One Thing, Like A Solid Door. Its Cold Sealed The City In A Gray Capsule. January Was Moments, And January Was A Year. January Rained The Moments Down, And Froze Them In Her Memory: [...]every Human Action Seemed To Yield A Magic. January Was A Two-faced Month, Jangling Like Jester's Bells, Crackling Like Snow Crust, Pure As Any Beginning, Grim As An Old Man, Mysteriously Familiar Yet Unknown, Like A Word One Can Almost But Not Quite Define.

And No Book, And Possibly No Painting, When It Is Finished, Is Ever Exactly Like The First Dream Of It.

I Prefer To Live In The Country Where It's Quiet. Woody Allen Movies There Are Dubbed Into Italian.

I Can't Write If Someone Else Is In The House, Not Even The Cleaning Woman.

I Know You Have It In You, Guy," Anne Said Suddenly At The End Of A Silence, "the Capacity To Be Terribly Happy.