I Cannot Count The Good People I

Probably One Of The Most Private Things In The World Is An Egg Until It Is Broken.

In General, I Think, Human Beings Are Happiest At Table When They Are Very Young, Very Much In Love Or Very Alone.

Most Bereaved Souls Crave Nourishment More Tangible Than Prayers: They Want A Steak.

I Sat In The Gradually Chilling Room, Thinking Of My Whole Past The Way A Drowning Man Is Supposed To, And It Seemed Part Of The Present, Part Of The Gray Cold And The Beggar Woman Without A Face And The Moulting Birds Frozen To Their Own Filth In The Orangerie. I Know Now I Was In The Throes Of Some Small Glandular Crisis, A Sublimated Bilious Attack, A Flick From The Whip Of Melancholia, But Then It Was Terrifying...nameless...

Children And Old People And The Parents In Between Should Be Able To Live Together, In Order To Learn How To Die With Grace, Together. And I Fear That This Is Purely Utopian Fantasy.