The White May Blossom Swooned Slowly Into

That's One Of The Many Things I Hate About Life, That It's A Hideously Cliched Business.

All Art At A Certain Level Is Entertainment. We Go To A Tragedy By Sophocles To Be Entertained.

Writing Keeps Me At My Desk, Constantly Trying To Write A Perfect Sentence. It Is A Great Privilege To Make One's Living From Writing Sentences. The Sentence Is The Greatest Invention Of Civilization. To Sit All Day Long Assembling These Extraordinary Strings Of Words Is A Marvelous Thing. I Couldn't Ask For Anything Better. It's As Near To Godliness As I Can Get.

Perhaps All Of Life Is No More Than A Long Preparation For The Leaving Of It.

Happiness Was Different In Childhood. It Was So Much Then A Matter Simply Of Accumulation, Of Taking Things - New Experiences, New Emotions - And Applying Them Like So Many Polished Tiles To What Would Someday Be The Marvellously Finished Pavilion Of The Self.