As We Grow Older, The

Writers Are Rarely Their Own Best Critics, Nor Are Critics.

...youth Is Only Being In A Way Like It Might Be An Animal. No, It Is Not Just Like Being An Animal So Much As Being Like One Of These Malenky Toys You Viddy Being Sold In The Streets, Like Little Chellovecks Made Out Of Tin And With A Spring Inside And Then A Winding Handle On The Outside And You Wind It Up Grrr Grrr Grrr And Off It Itties, Like Walking, O My Brothers. But It Itties In A Straight Line And Bangs Straight Into Things Bang Bang And It Cannot Help What It Is Doing. Being Young Is Like Being Like One Of These Malenky Machines.

Reviewers Do Not Read Books With Much Care . . . Their Profession Is More Given To Stupidity And Malice And Literary Ignorance Even Than The Profession Of Novelist.

For No Man Is Damned Precisely Because God Hath Not Chosen Him, Because He Is Not Elected, But Because He Is A Sinner, And Doth Wilfully Refuse The Means Of Grace Offered.

It May Not Be Nice To Be Good, Little 6655321. It May Be Horrible To Be Good. And When I Say That To You I Realize How Self-contradictory That Sounds. I Know I Shall Have Many Sleepless Nights About This. What Does God Want? Does God Want Goodness Or The Choice Of Goodness? Is A Man Who Chooses The Bad Perhaps In Some Way Better Than A Man Who Has The Good Imposed Upon Him? Deep And Hard Questions, Little 6655321.