I Am Not Even Alive Enough To

Each Of Us Bears The Imprint Of A Friend Met Along The Way; In Each The Trace Of Each.

Human Memory Is A Marvelous But Fallacious Instrument. The Memories Which Lie Within Us Are Not Carved In Stone; Not Only Do They Tend To Become Erased As The Years Go By, But Often They Change, Or Even Increase By Incorporating Extraneous Features.

If A Writer Is Convinced That He Is Honest, Then It Is Very Difficult For Him To Be A Bad Writer.

In History And In Life One Sometimes Seems To Glimpse A Ferocious Law Which States: To He That Has, Will Be Given; From He That Has Not, Will Be Taken Away.

Everybody Is Somebody's Jew.