God Is A God Of Lovingkindness.

Our Mythology Tells Us So Much About Fathers And Sons. ... What Do We Know About Mothers And Daughters? ... Our Power Is So Oblique, So Hidden, So Ethereal A Matter, That We Rarely Struggle With Our Daughters Over Actual Kingdoms Or Corporate Shares. On The Other Hand, Our Attractiveness Dries As Theirs Blooms, Our Journey Shortens Just As Theirs Begins. We Too Must Be Afraid And Awed And Amazed That We Cannot Live Forever And That Our Replacements Are Eager For Their Turn, Indifferent To Our Wishes, Ready To Leave Us Behind.

Sometimes What We Call Love Is Just A Settling Of Old Scores, Or A Seeking Of Forbidden Pain, Or A Circuitous Path To The Kingdom Of Cruelty, Or She May Simply Have Confused Lack Of Capital With Heroism While Searching For Rescue Without Knowing From What.

A Woman Whose Smile Is Open And Whose Expression Is Glad Has A Kind Of Beauty No Matter What She Wears.

I've Told The Same Story Twelve Different Ways, But I Think That's Just Part Of What Writers Do. Once May Not Be Enough.

It's True, We Tend To Write About The Same Thing Over And Over Again Because This Is Our Trauma. If I Had Been In World War Ii, I Might Have Been Writing About D-day Over And Over Again.