The White May Blossom Swooned Slowly Into

We Think We're Living In The Present, But We're Really Living In The Past.

The Telephone Ringing Gave Me A Dreadful Start. I Have Never Got Used To This Machine, The Way It Crouches So Malevolently, Ready To Start Clamouring For Attention When You Least Expect It, Like A Mad Baby.

It's Great People Still Care About Books, And It's Great You Can Still Fashion A Life From Literature.

How Flat All Sounds Are At The Seaside, Flat And Yet Emphatic, Like The Sound Of Gunshots Heard At A Distance.

There Are Times, They Occur With Increasing Frequency Nowadays, When I Seem To Know Nothing, When Everything I Know Seems To Have Fallen Out Of My Mind Like A Shower Of Rain, And I Am Gripped For A Moment In Paralysed Dismay, Waiting For It All To Come Back But With No Certainty That It Will.