It Sounds So Far Away And Different.

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.

Housework's The Hardest Work In The World. That's Why Men Won't Do It.

A Stricken Tree, A Living Thing, So Beautiful, So Dignified, So Admirable In Its Potential Longevity, Is, Next To Man, Perhaps The Most Touching Of Wounded Objects.

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

Writers Should Be Read But Not Seen. Rarely Are They A Winsome Sight.