I Remind Myself That No One Day

She Breathed Deeply Of The Scent Of Decaying Fiction, Disintegrating History, And Forgotten Verse, And She Observed For The First Time That A Room Full Of Books Smelled Like Dessert: A Sweet Snack Made Of Figs, Vanilla, Glue, And Cleverness.

Gold Don't Come Off. What's Good Stays Good No Matter How Much Of A Beating It Takes.

It Bewildered Ig, The Idea That A Person Could Not Be Interested In Music. It Was Like Not Being Interested In Happiness.

She Liked Things That Had Been Written By People Who Had Lived Short, Ugly, And Tragic Lives. Or, Who At Least, Were English.

A Pamphlet, No Matter How Good, Is Never Read More Than Once, But A Song Is Learned By Heart And Repeated Over And Over. And I Maintain That If A Person Can Put A Few Common Sense Facts Into A Song And Dress Them Up In A Cloak Of Humor, He Will Succeed In Reaching A Great Number Of Workers Who Are Too Unintelligent Or Too Indifferent To Read.