I Actually Remember Feeling Delight, At Two

Because If One Has An Image, However Dim And Romantic, Of A Journey's End, One May, In The End, Surely Reach It, After No Matter How Many Detours And Deceptions And Abandonings Of Hope. And Hope Could Never Have Been Entirely Abandoned, Even In The Worst Days.

I'd Rather Be At The End Of A Dying Tradition, Which I Admire, Than At The Beginning Of A Tradition Which I Deplore.

Some Of What We Read In Classical Literature Is Not Relative To Our Condition, But Then Many Women Novelists And Poets Have Turned It Upside Down And Told The Stories From The Other Point Of View.

Auntie Phyl's Last Months In The Care Home Were Extra Pieces. Age Is Unnecessary. Some Of Us, Like My Mother, Are Fortunate Enough To Die Swiftly And Suddenly, In Full Possession Of Our Faculties And Our Fate, But More And More Of Us Will Be Condemned To Linger, At The Mercy Of Anxious Or Indifferent Relatives, Careless Strangers, Unwanted Medical Interventions, Increasing Debility, Incontinence, Memory Loss. We Live Too Long, But, Like The Sibyl Hanging In Her Basket In The Cave At Cumae, We Find It Hard To Die.

How Extraordinary People Are, That They Get Themselves Into Such Situations Where They Go On Doing What They Dislike Doing, And Have No Need Or Obligation To Do, Simply Because It Seems To Be Expected.