Foolish People Are Never Harmless. Stupidity Accounts

Few Things Are Better In The World Than A Room Full Of Librarians. I Consider Them Literary Heroes. The Keepers And Defenders Of The Written Word.

Every Year The Hunters Shot Cows And Horses And Family Pets And Each Other. And Unbelievably, They Sometimes Shot Themselves, Perhaps In A Psychotic Episode Where They Mistook Themselves For Dinner

But, Like Peace, Comfort Didn't Come From Hiding Away Or Running Away. Comfort First Demanded Courage.

But There Was No Hiding From Conscience. Not In New Homes And New Cars. In Travel. In Meditation Or Frantic Activity. In Children, In Good Works. On Tiptoes Or Bended Knee. In A Big Career. Or A Small Cabin. It Would Find You. The Past Always Did. Which Was Why... It Was Vital To Be Aware Of Actions In The Present. Because The Present Became The Past, And The Past Grew. And Got Up, And Followed You. And Found You... Who Wouldn't Be Afraid Of This?

Every Decade Of My Life I Attempted To Write A Novel. But I Had Nothing To Say. I Was Far Too Self-absorbed, And Now I Realize I Was Writing For Others, So That They'd Applaud Me, See My Genius, Tell Me How Wonderful I Am, Or Be Jealous Of My Success.