Life Is A Long Failure Of Understanding

Then Carol Slipped Her Arm Under Her Neck, And All The Length Of Their Bodies Touched Fitting As If Something Had Prearranged It. Happiness Was Like A Green Vine Spreading Through Her, Stretching Fine Tendrils, Bearing Flowers Through Her Flesh. She Had A Vision Of A Pale White Flower, Shimmering As If Seen In Darkness, Or Through Water. Why Did People Talk Of Heaven, She Wondered

I Have Graham Greene's Telephone Number, But I Wouldn't Dream Of Using It. I Don't Seek Out Writers Because We All Want To Be Alone.

Honesty, For Me, Is Usually The Worst Policy Imaginable.

January. It Was All Things. And It Was One Thing, Like A Solid Door. Its Cold Sealed The City In A Gray Capsule. January Was Moments, And January Was A Year. January Rained The Moments Down, And Froze Them In Her Memory: [...]every Human Action Seemed To Yield A Magic. January Was A Two-faced Month, Jangling Like Jester's Bells, Crackling Like Snow Crust, Pure As Any Beginning, Grim As An Old Man, Mysteriously Familiar Yet Unknown, Like A Word One Can Almost But Not Quite Define.

This Is What I Like, Sitting At A Table And Watching People Go By. It Does Something To Your Outlook On Life. The Anglo-saxons Make A Great Mistake Not Staring At People From A Sidewalk Table.