There Are Two Kinds Of

When You Reread A Classic, You Do Not See More In The Book Than You Did Before; You See More In You Than There Was Before.

Reading To Small Children Is A Specialty.

Seriously, I Do Not Know What To Say Of This Book [ Absalom, Absalom!] Except That It Seem To Point To The Final Blowup Of What Was Once A Remarkable, If Minor, Talent… This Is A Penny Dreadful Tricked Up In Fancy Language And Given A Specious Depth By The Expert Manipulation Of A Series Of Eccentric Technical Tricks. The Characters Have No Magnitude And No Meaning Because They Have No More Reality Than A Mince-pie Nightmare.

To Divide One's Life By Years Is Of Course To Tumble Into A Trap Set By Our Own Arithmetic. The Calendar Consents To Carry On Its Dull Wall-existence By The Arbitrary Timetables We Have Drawn Up In Consultation With Those Permanent Commuters, Earth And Sun. But We, Unlike Trees, Need Grow No Annual Rings.

Cheese Is Milk's Leap Towards Immortality.