We Cling To Our Last Pleasures As

Do You Remember Your Childhood? I Am Always Coming Across These Marvelous Accounts By Writers Who Declare That They Remember 'everything.' I Certainly Don't. The Dark Stretches, The Blanks, Are Much Bigger Than The Bright Glimpses. I Seem To Have Spent Most Of My Time Like A Plant In A Cupboard.

Yes, My Mother's Death Is A Terrible Sorrow To Me. I Feel - Do You Know What I Mean - The Silence Of It So. She Was More Alive Than Anyone I Have Ever Known.

The Mind I Love Must Have Wild Places.

We Cling To Our Last Pleasures As The Tree Clings To Its Last Leaves.

Ah, What Happiness It Is To Be With People Who All Are Happy, To Press Hands, Press Cheeks, Smile Into Eyes.