Raids Are Slightly Constipating.

Plot Is The Knowing Of Destination.

Silences Have A Climax, When You Have Got To Speak.

The Writer, Unlike His Non-writing Adult Friend, Has No Predisposed Outlook; He Seldom Observes Deliberately. He Sees What He Didnot Intend To See; He Remembers What Does Not Seem Wholly Possible. Inattentive Learner In The Schoolroom Of Life, He Keeps Some Faculty Free To Veer And Wander. His Is The Roving Eye.

Meeting People Unlike Oneself Does Not Enlarge One's Outlook; It Only Confirms One's Idea That One Is Unique.

I Know That I Have In My Make-up Layers Of Synthetic Experiences, And That The Most Powerful Of My Memories Are Only Half True.