A Book Is Completed Only When It

Cynicism Is Easy. An Optimist Is A Braver Cynic.

It Is Not Fashionable Anymore, I Suppose, To Have A Regard For One's Mother In The Way My Brother And I Had Then, In The Mid-1950s, When The Noise Outside The Window Was Mostly Wind And Sea Chime.

The Luxury Of Age Was The Giving Up Of Vanity.

One Small Cloud, Cast Out By The Herd, Limps Away To The West.

I Don't Know Of A Greater Privilege Than Being Allowed To Tell A Story, Or To Listen To A Story. They're The Only Thing We Have That Can Trump Life Itself.