Life Seemed Even More Of A Guessing

I Know This Much: That There Is Objective Time, But Also Subjective Time, The Kind You Wear On The Inside Of Your Wrist, Next To Where The Pulse Lies. And This Personal Time, Which Is The True Time, Is Measured In Your Relationship To Memory.

I'm A Complete Democrat In Terms Of Who Buys My Books.

Discovering, For Example, That As Witnesses To Your Life Diminish, There Is Less Corroboration, And Therefore Less Certainty, As To What You Are Or Have Been. [p. 65]

I Hate The Way The English Have Of Not Being Serious About Being Serious, I Really Hate It.

Life Is Like Invading Russia. A Blitz Start, Massed Shakos, Plumes Dancing Like A Flustered Henhouse; A Period Of Svelte Progress Recorded In Ebullient Despatches As The Enemy Falls Back; Then The Beginning Of A Long, Morale-sapping Trudge With Rations Getting Shorter And The First Snowflakes Upon Your Face. The Enemy Burns Moscow And You Yield To General January, Whose Fingernails Are Very Icicles. Bitter Retreat. Harrying Cossacks. Eventually You Fall Beneath A Boy-gunner's Grapeshot While Crossing Some Polish River Not Even Marked On Your General's Map.