It's A Fine World, Though Rich In

I Don't See How Being Married Could Be Any Worse Than Listening To You Talk For Twenty Years, But That Still Ain't Much Of A Recommendation For It.

When Augustus Came Out On The Porch The Blue Pigs Were Eating A Rattlesnake—not A Very Big One. It Had Probably Just Been Crawling Around Looking For Shade When It Ran Into The Pigs. They Were Having A Fine Tug-of-war With It, And Its Rattling Days Were Over.

Yesterday's Gone On Down The River And You Can't Get It Back.

The Lives Of Happy People Are Dense With Their Own Doings -- Crowded, Active, Thick. But The Sorrowing Are Nomads, On A Plain With Few Landmarks And No Boundaries; Sorrow's Horizons Are Vague And Its Demands Are Few.

The Tradition I Was Born Into Was Essentially Nomadic, A Herdsmen Tradition, Following Animals Across The Earth. The Bookshops Are A Form Of Ranching; Instead Of Herding Cattle, I Herd Books. Writing Is A Form Of Herding, Too; I Herd Words Into Little Paragraph-like Clusters.