How Easy It Was To Lie When

January. It Was All Things. And It Was One Thing, Like A Solid Door. Its Cold Sealed The City In A Gray Capsule. January Was Moments, And January Was A Year. January Rained The Moments Down, And Froze Them In Her Memory: [...]every Human Action Seemed To Yield A Magic. January Was A Two-faced Month, Jangling Like Jester's Bells, Crackling Like Snow Crust, Pure As Any Beginning, Grim As An Old Man, Mysteriously Familiar Yet Unknown, Like A Word One Can Almost But Not Quite Define.

It Always Gets Late With You. - Is That A Compliment?

In View Of The Fact That I Surround Myself With Numbskulls Now, I Shall Die Among Numbskulls, And On My Deathbed Shall Be Surrounded By Numbskulls Who Will Not Understand What I Am Saying ... Whom Am I Sleeping With These Days ? Franz Kafka.

I Should Love To Do A Novel, About One Abnormal Character Seeing Present-day Life, Very Ordinary Life, Yet Arresting Through It, Abnormality, Until At The End The Reader Sees, And With Little Reluctance, That He Is Not Abnormal At All, And That The Main Character Might As Well Be Himself.

He Loved Possessions, Not Masses Of Them, But A Select Few That He Did Not Part With.they Gave A Man Self-respect. Not Ostentation But Quality, And The Love That Cherished The Quality. Possessions Reminded Him That He Existed, And Made Him Enjoy His Existence. It Was As Simple As That. And Wasn' T That Worth Something? He Existed.