My Bag Was As Light As My

She Started Thinking About All The Euphemisms For Death, All The Anxious Taboos That Had Always Fascinated Her. It Was Too Bad You Could Never Have An Intelligent Discussion On The Subject. People Were Either Too Young Or Too Old, Or Else They Didn't Have Time.

One Summer Morning At Sunrise A Long Time Ago I Met A Little Girl With A Book Under Her Arm. I Asked Her Why She Was Out So Early And She Answered That There Were Too Many Books And Far Too Little Time. And There She Was Absolutely Right.

You Can't Ever Be Really Free If You Admire Somebody Too Much.

Christmas Always Rustled. It Rustled Every Time, Mysteriously, With Silver And Gold Paper, Tissue Paper And A Rich Abundance Of Shiny Paper, Decorating And Hiding Everything And Giving A Feeling Of Reckless Extravagance.

Now Everything Was Changed. She Walked About With Cautious, Anxious Steps, Staring Constantly At The Ground, On The Lookout For Things That Crept And Crawled. Bushes Were Dangerous, And So Were Sea Grass And Rain Water. There Were Little Animals Everywhere. They Could Turn Up Between The Covers Of A Book, Flattened And Dead, For The Fact Is That Creeping Animals, Tattered Animals, And Dead Animals Are With Us All Our Lives, From Beginning To End. Grandmother Tried To Discuss This With Her, To No Avail. Irrational Terror Is So Hard To Deal With.