When We're Young, Everyone Over The Age

Nature Is So Exact, It Hurts Exactly As Much As It Is Worth, So In A Way One Relishes The Pain. If It Didn't Matter, It Wouldn't Matter.

Was It The Case That Colours Dimmed As The Eye Grew Elderly? Or Was It Rather That In Youth Your Excitement About The World Transferred Itself Onto Everything You Saw And Made It Brighter?

The Imagination Doesn't Crop Annually Like A Reliable Fruit Tree. The Writer Has To Gather Whatever's There: Sometimes Too Much, Sometimes Too Little, Sometimes Nothing At All. And In The Years Of Glut There Is Always A Slatted Wooden Tray In Some Cool, Dark Attic, Which The Writer Nervously Visits From Time To Time; And Yes, Oh Dear, While He's Been Hard At Work Downstairs, Up In The Attic There Are Puckering Skins, Warning Spots, A Sudden Brown Collapse And The Sprouting Of Snowflakes. What Can He Do About It?

Global Warming Is More Of A Blessing Than A Curse.

Wisdom Consists Partly In Not Pretending Anymore, In Discarding Artifice.