I'm Sure Proust Was A Big Bore.

Oh, I Adore To Cook. It Makes Me Feel So Mindless In A Worthwhile Way.

He Loved Her, He Loved Her, And Until He'd Loved Her She Had Never Minded Being Alone.

But There Were Moments When She Played Songs That Made You Wonder Where She Learned Them, Where Indeed She Came From. Harsh-tender Wandering Tunes With Words That Smacked Of Pinewoods Or Prairie. One Went: Don’t Wanna Sleep, Don’t Wanna Die, Just Wanna Go A-travelin’ Through The Pastures Of The Sky; And This One Seemed To Gratify Her The Most, For Often She Continued It Long After Her Hair Hard Dried, After The Sun Had Gone And There Were Lighted Windows In The Dusk.

If A Man Doesn't Like Baseball, Then He Must Like Horses, And If He Doesn't Like Either Of Them, Well, I'm In Trouble Anyway: He Don't Like Girls.

I Was Terribly Sure Trees And Flowers Were The Same As Birds Or People. That They Thought Things And Talked Among Themselves. And We Could Hear Them If We Really Tried. It Was Just A Matter Of Emptying Your Head Of All Other Sounds. Being Very Quiet And Listening Very Hard. Sometimes I Still Believe That. But One Can Never Get Quiet Enough.