The Silence Is Perfect, And

It's Hard Work Being A Person, You Have To Do It Every Single Day.

Nothing She Did Or Said Was Quite What She Meant But Still Her Life Could Be Called A Monument Shaped In A Slant Of Available Light And Set To The Movement Of Possible Music

Bookish People, Who Are Often Maladroit People, Persist In Thinking They Can Master Any Subtlety So Long As It's Been Shaped Into Acceptable Expository Prose.

He Dares Not Concern Himself With The Future For Fear Of Disturbing The Present.

Happiness Is The Lucky Pane Of Glass You Carry In Your Head. It Takes All Your Cunning Just To Hang On To It, And Once It's Smashed You Have To Move Into A Different Sort Of Life.