...the Routine Of Life Goes On, Whatever

Men Are Simpler Than You Imagine My Sweet Child. But What Goes On In The Twisted, Tortuous Minds Of Women Would Baffle Anyone.

Sometimes It’s A Sort Of Indulgence To Think The Worst Of Ourselves. We Say, ‘now I Have Reached The Bottom Of The Pit, Now I Can Fall No Further,’ And It Is Almost A Pleasure To Wallow In The Darkness. The Trouble Is, It’s Not True. There Is No End To The Evil In Ourselves, Just As There Is No End To The Good. It’s A Matter Of Choice. We Struggle To Climb, Or We Struggle To Fall. The Thing Is To Discover Which Way We’re Going.

If Only There Could Be An Invention That Bottled Up A Memory, Like Scent. And It Never Faded, And It Never Got Stale. And Then, When One Wanted It, The Bottle Could Be Uncorked, And It Would Be Like Living The Moment All Over Again.

Writing Every Book Is Like A Purge; At The End Of It One Is Empty ... Like A Dry Shell On The Beach, Waiting For The Tide To Come In Again.

Boredom Is A Pleasing Antidote For Fear