Christmas Is Not A Season. It Is

Perhaps Too Much Of Everything Is As Bad As Too Little.

Only Amateurs Say That They Write For Their Own Amusement. Writing Is Not An Amusing Occupation. It Is A Combination Of Ditch-digging, Mountain-climbing, Treadmill And Childbirth. Writing May Be Interesting, Absorbing, Exhilarating, Racking, Relieving. But Amusing? Never!

Now Gae Your Wa'stho'anes As Gude As Ever Happit Flesh And Blude, Yet Part We Maunthe Case Sae Hard Is, Amang The Writers And The Bardies That Lang They'll Brook The Auld I Trow, Or Neibours Cry,'weel Brook The New'.

There Are ... Just Two Kinds Of Girls. Those Who Go Down Town Saturday Nights, And Those Who Don't.

I Sat Staring Up At A Shelf In My Workroom From Which Thirty-one Books Identically Dressed In Neat Dark Green Leather Stared Back At Me With A Sort Of Cold Hostility Like Children Who Resent Their Parents. Don't Stare At Us Like That! They Said. Don't Blame Us If We Didn't Turn Out To Be The Perfection You Expected. We Didn't Ask To Be Brought Into The World.