I Think My Greatest Talent Really Is

All Artists Are Two-headed Calves.

Past Certain Ages Or Certain Wisdoms It Is Very Difficult To Look With Wonder; It Is Best Done When One Is A Child; After That, And If You Are Lucky, You Will Find A Bridge Of Childhood And Walk Across It.

But It's Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks Are Slow On Sundays.

It Snowed All Week. Wheels And Footsteps Moved Soundlessly On The Street, As If The Business Of Living Continued Secretly Behind A Pale But Impenetrable Curtain. In The Falling Quiet There Was No Sky Or Earth, Only Snow Lifting In The Wind, Frosting The Window Glass, Chilling The Rooms, Deadening And Hushing The City. At All Hours It Was Necessary To Keep A Lamp Lighted, And Mrs. Miller Lost Track Of The Days: Friday Was No Different From Saturday And On Sunday She Went To The Grocery: Closed, Of Course.

Sicily Is More Beautiful Than Any Woman.