And No Book, And Possibly No Painting,

For Neither Life Nor Nature Cares If Justice Is Ever Done Or Not.

Then Carol Slipped Her Arm Under Her Neck, And All The Length Of Their Bodies Touched Fitting As If Something Had Prearranged It. Happiness Was Like A Green Vine Spreading Through Her, Stretching Fine Tendrils, Bearing Flowers Through Her Flesh. She Had A Vision Of A Pale White Flower, Shimmering As If Seen In Darkness, Or Through Water. Why Did People Talk Of Heaven, She Wondered

It Always Gets Late With You. - Is That A Compliment?

Honesty, For Me, Is Usually The Worst Policy Imaginable.

Life Is A Long Failure Of Understanding ... A Long, Mistaken Shutting Of The Heart.