...no Cat Out Of Its First Fur

Ah. My Story. Are You Certain You Wish To Hear It? It Is Long, Unlikely, And Remarkably Unedifying -- Shameful, Even, To Come From A Minister's Lips. Blasphemous, Too, Properly Regarded.

She Said, "i Will Go No Farther." "there Is No Choice. We Can Only Go On." The Magician Said Again. "we Can Only Go On.

It's Really Not So Good To Have Time. Rush, Scramble, Desperation, This Missed, That Left Behind, Those Others Too Big To Fit Into Such A Small Space--that's The Way Life Was Meant To Be. You're Supposed To Be Too Late For Some Things. Don't Worry About It.

I Am Afraid! It Is Not Starving I Fear, Or Talking To People, Or Even Being Alone. But I Cannot Bear To Be Useless And Ineffectual. There Must Be Some Meaning To Me, If Not To My Life; There Must Surely Be Some Purpose That Has My Name Written On It. If This Is Not So, If I Am Deceiving Myself About This Too, Then Why Should I Want To Become Real? What Reason Have I To Live Anywhere?

I'll Tell You Something. Once I Was Very Fond Of A Poem By Emily Dickinson Or Somebody. I Only Remember One Line Of It, But It Goes, 'the Soul Selects Her Own Society.' I Used To Tell It To Everybody. Once I Quoted It To A Friend Of Mine, And He Said, 'maybe, But The Body Gets Thrown Into Bed With The Goddamnedest People.