But Superstition, Like Belief, Must Die.

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

In Times When Nothing Stood But Worsened, Or Grew Strange, There Was One Constant Good: She Did Not Change.

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

Above All, Though, Children Are Linked To Adults By The Simple Fact That They Are In Process Of Turning Into Them. For This They May Be Forgiven Much. Children Are Bound To Be Inferior To Adults, Or There Is No Incentive To Grow Up.

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.