She Did Not So Much Cook As

The Older I Grow The More Sharply I Mistrust Words. So Few Of Them Have Any Meaning Left. It Is Impossible To Write One Sentence In Which Every Word Has The Bareness And Hardness Of Bones, The Reality Of The Skeleton.

Only One Person In A Thousand Knows The Trick Of Really Living In The Present. Most Of Us Spend Fifty-nine Minutes An Hour Living In The Past, With Regret For Lost Joys Or Shame For Things Badly Done (both Utterly Useless And Weakening) Or In A Future Which We Either Long For Or Dread. . . . There Is Only One Minute In Which You Are Alive, This Minute, Here And Now. The Only Way To Live Is By Accepting Each Minute As An Unrepeatable Miracle. Which Is Exactly What It Is-a Miracle And Unrepeatable.

Any Marriage Worth The Name Is No Better Than A Series Of Beginnings - Many Of Them Abortive.

Is It Really Beyond Our Wits To Devise Some Form Of Censorship Which Would Trap Only The Crudely Sadistic?

If The Novel Is Dying, I See No Chance That Dismembering It Will Revive It.