I Thought, I Fanced, That In A

I’d Spent My Whole Life Waiting To Awake On An Ordinary Morning In The Town That Was Destined To Be My Home, In The Arms Of The Woman I Was Destined To Love, Knowing The People And Doing The Work That Would Make Up The Changing But Essentially Invariable Landscape Of My Particular Destiny.

There Was Something Unmistakably Exultant About The Mess That Rosa Had Made. Her Bedroom-studio Was At Once The Canvas, Journal, Museum, And Midden Of Her Life. She Did Not “decorate” It; She Infused It.

Maybe All Wondrous Books Appear In Our Lives The Way Milo’s Tollbooth Appears, An Inexplicable Gift, Cast Up By Some Curious Chance That Comes To Feel, After We Have Finished And Fallen In Love With The Book, Like The Workings Of A Secret Purpose. Of All The Enchantments Of Beloved Books The Most Mysterious-the Most Phantasmal-is The Way They Always Seem To Come Our Way Precisely When We Need Them.

No; He Could Be Ruined Again And Again By Hope, But He Would Never Be Capable Of Belief.

All Male Friendships Are Essentially Quixotic: They Last Only So Long As Each Man Is Willing To Polish The Shaving-bowl Helmet, Climb On His Donkey, And Ride Off After The Other In Pursuit Of Illusive Glory And Questionable Adventure.