It Is Necessary To Write, If The

A Letter, By Its Arrival, Defrauds Us Of A Whole Secret Region Of Our Existence, The Only Region Indeed In Which The True Pleasure Of Life May Be Tasted, The Region Of Imagination, Creative And Protean, The Clouds And Beautiful Shapes Of Whose Heaven Are Destroyed By The Wind Of Reality.

Things Were Not Tragic For Us Then, Because Although We Cared Passionately We Didn't Care Deeply.

When, And How, And At What Stage Of Our Development Did Spirituality And Our Strange Notions Of Religion Arise? The Need For Worship Which Is Nothing More Than Our Frightened Refuge Into Propitiation Of A Creator We Do Not Understand? A Detective Story, The Supreme Who-done-it, Written In Indecipherable Hieroglyphics, No Rosetta Stone Supplied By The Consummate Mystifier To Tease Us Poor Fumbling Unravellers Of His Plot.

The More One Gardens, The More One Learns; And The More One Learns, The More One Realizes How Little One Knows.

I Cannot Abide The Mr. And Mrs. Noah Attitude Towards Marriage; The Animals Went In Two By Two, Forever Stuck Together With Glue.