Sad; So Sad, Those Smoky-rose, Smoky-mauve Evenings

And, Oh God, In My Misspent Youth As A Housewife, I, Too, Used To Bake Bread, In Those Hectic And Desolating Days Just Prior To The Woman's Movement, When Middle-class Women Were Supposed To Be Wonderful Wives And Mothers, Gracious Hostesses.... I Used To Feel So Womanly When I Was Baking My Filthy Bread.

Cities Have Sexes: London Is A Man, Paris A Woman, And New York A Well-adjusted Transsexual.

Not For Moorcock The Painful, Infrequent Excretion Of Dry Little Novels Like So Many Rabbit Pellets; His Is The Grand, Messy Fluxitself, In All Its Heroic Vulgarity, Its Unquenchable Optimism, Its Enthusiasm For The Inexhaustible Variousness Of Things.

A Fairy Tale Is The Kind Of Story In Which One King Goes To Another King To Borrow A Cup Of Sugar

Home Is Where The Heart Is And Hence A Movable Feast.