In All The World There Is Not

She Walked Quickly Around Her One-room Apartment. After More Than Four Years In This One Home She Knew All Its Possibilities, How It Could Put On A Sham Appearance Of Warmth And Welcome When She Needed A Place To Hide In, How It Stood Over Her In The Night When She Woke Suddenly, How It Could Relax Itself Into A Disagreeable Unmade, Badly-put-together State, Mornings Like This, Anxious To Drive Her Out And Go Back To Sleep.

There Had Not Been This Many Words Sounded In Our House For A Long Time, And It Was Going To Take A While To Clean Them Out.

He Is Altogether Selfish, She Thought In Some Surprise, The Only Man I Have Ever Sat And Talked To Alone, And I Am Impatient; He Is Simply Not Very Interesting.

All Cat Stories Start With This Statement: "my Mother, Who Was The First Cat, Told Me This...

She Had Taken To Wondering Lately, During These Swift-counted Years, What Had Been Done With All Those Wasted Summer Days; How Could She Have Spent Them So Wantonly? I Am Foolish, She Told Herself Early Every Summer, I Am Very Foolish; I Am Grown Up Now And Know The Values Of Things. Nothing Is Ever Really Wasted, She Believed Sensibly, Even One's Childhood, And Then Each Year, One Summer Morning, The Warm Wind Would Come Down The City Street Where She Walked And She Would Be Touched With The Little Cold Thought: I Have Let More Time Go By.