I Write This Sitting In The Kitchen

Though He Had Very Little Latin Beyond "cave Canem," He Had, As A Young Dog, Devoured Shakespeare (in A Tasty Leather Binding).

My Hand Is Very Tired But I Want To Go On Writing. I Keep Resting And Thinking. All Day I Have Been Two People - The Me Imprisoned In Yesterday And The Me Out Here On The Mound; And Now There Is A Third Me Trying To Get In - The Me In What Is Going To Happen Next.

They Call Them The Haunted Shores, These Stretches Of Devonshire And Cornwall And Ireland Which Rear Up Against The Westward Ocean. Mists Gather Here, And Sea Fog, And Eerie Stories. That's Not Because There Are More Ghosts Here Than In Other Places, Mind You. It's Just That People Who Live Hereabouts Are Strangely Aware Of Them.

And At Last Father Flung The Rug Off As If It Were Hampering Him And Strode Over To The Table Saying, 'cocoa, Cocoa!'-- It Might Have Been The Most Magnificent Drink In The World; Which, Personally, I Think It Is.

Cruel Blows Of Fate Call For Extreme Kindness In The Family Circle.