One Stroke Of Lightning Does

Hatred Is Always A Sin, My Mother Told Me. Remember That. One Drop Of Hatred In Your Soul Will Spread And Discolor Everything Like A Drop Of Black Ink In White Milk. I Was Struck By That And Meant To Try It, But Knew I Shouldn’t Waste The Milk.

Few People, Very Few, Have A Treasure, And If You Do You Must Hang Onto It. You Must Not Let Yourself Be Waylaid, And Have It Taken From You.

Anecdotes Don't Make Good Stories. Generally I Dig Down Underneath Them So Far That The Story That Finally Comes Out Is Not What People Thought Their Anecdotes Were About.

Memory Is The Way We Keep Telling Ourselves Our Stories - And Telling Other People A Somewhat Different Version Of Our Stories.

I Began To Understand That There Were Certain Talkers - Certain Girls - Whom People Liked To Listen To, Not Because Of What They, The Girls, Had To Say, But Because Of The Delight They Took In Saying It. A Delight In Themselves, A Shine On Their Faces, A Conviction That Whatever They Were Telling About Was Remarkable And That They Themselves Could Not Help But Give Pleasure. There Might Be Other People - People Like Me - Who Didn't Concede This, But That Was Their Loss. And People Like Me Would Never Be The Audience These Girls Were After, Anyway.