You Can't Put Off Being Young Until

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

One Of The Quainter Quirks Of Life Is That We Shall Never Know Who Dies On The Dame Day As We Do Ourselves.

Here Is An Unfenced Existance

A Writer Can Have Only One Language, If Language Is Going To Mean Anything To Him.

Never Such Innocence, Never Before Or Since, As Changed Itself To Past Without A Word--the Men Leaving The Gardens Tidy, The Thousands Of Marriages Lasting A Little While Longer: Never Such Innocence Again.