... There Can Be No More Shameless

Too Few Of Us, Perhaps, Feel That Breaking Of Bread, The Sharing Of Salt, The Common Dipping Into One Bowl, Mean More Than Satisfaction Of A Need. We Make Such Primal Things As Casual As Tunes Heard Over A Radio, Forgetting The Mystery And Strength In Both.

Death ... So Seldom Happens Nowadays In The Awesome Quiet Of A Familiar Chamber. Most Of Us Die Violently, Thanks To The Advance Of Science And Warfare. If By Chance We Are Meant To End Life In Our Beds, We Are Whisked Like Pox Victims To The Nearest Hospital, Where We Are Kept As Alone And Unaware As Possible Of The Approach Of Disintegration.

For Anyone Addicted To Reading Commonplace Books . . . Finding A Good New One Is Much Like Enduring A Familiar Recurrence Of Malaria, With Fever, Fits Of Shaking, Strange Dreams . . . .

For Me, A Plain Baked Potato Is The Most Delicious One....it Is Soothing And Enough.

The Smell Of Good Bread Baking, Like The Sound Of Lightly Flowing Water, Is Indescribable In Its Evocation Of Innocence And Delight