I Am Inclined To Believe That A

She Must Face Her Grief Where The Struggle Is Always Hardest-in The Place Where Each Trivial Object Is Attended By Pleasant Memories.

What Was Time Itself But The Bloom, The Sheath Enfolding Experience? Within Time, And With Time Alone, There Was Life - The Gleam, The Quiver, The Heartbeat, The Immeasurable Joy And Anguish Of Being.

Happiness Is A Hardy Annual.

Nothing, Except The Weather Report Or A General Maxim Of Conduct, Is So Unsafe To Rely Upon As A Theory Of Fiction.

It Would Appear, From The Best Examples, That The Proper Way Of Beginning A Preface To One's Work Is With A Humble Apology For Having Written At All.