At No Time, Anywhere, Was The Population

Writers Do Not Come Out Of Houses Without Books.

Art Is The Mirror Of Our Betrayed Ideals.

Knowing Cats, A Lifetime Of Cats, What Is Left Is A Sediment Of Sorrow Quite Different From That Due To Humans: Compounded Of Pain For Their Helplessness, Of Guilt On Behalf Of Us All.

Once I Read Autobiography As What The Writer Thought About His Or Her Life. Now I Think, 'this Is What They Thought At That Time'. An Interim Report - That Is What An Autobiography Is.

There Is Only One Real Sin And That Is To Persuade Oneself That The Second Best Is Anything But Second Best.