Reality Might Be Described As The Eternal

How Can There Be So Many Mothers In The World But So Little Sense Of What It Might Be To Become One?

Hope Is Like One Of Those Orchids That Grows Around Toxic Waste: Lovely In Itself - And An Assertion, If You Like, Of Indefatigable Good - But A Sure Sign That Something Nasty Lies Underneath.

People Are Least Aware Of Others When Demonstrating Their Own Power Over Them.

The Reaction To 'aftermath' Has Been Far Worse Than To 'a Life's Work,' Yet I Find I'm Perhaps A Little Less Touched By It. In Both Cases, I've Coped Artistically By Believing The Criticisms Weren't Right. They Upset Me, But They Didn't Challenge My Understanding Of How To Write, Nor Of How Morality Functions In Literature.

You Could Time A Suburban Story By Your Watch: It Lasts As Long As It Takes A Small Furry Animal That's Lonely To Find Friends, Or A Small Furry Animal That's Lost To Find Its Parents; It Lasts As Long As A Quick Avowal Of Love; It Lasts Precisely As Long As The Average Parent Is Disposed On A Tuesday Night To Spend Reading Aloud To Children.