Making The Best Of Things Is A

I Ask Myself, 'why Am I So Lazy?' And Am Too Lazy To Reply.

We Are Never Aware Of The Present; Each Instant Of Living Becomes Perceptible Only When It Is Past, So That In A Sense We Do Not Live At All, But Only Remember Living.

Even The Street, The Sunshine, The Very Air Had A Special Sunday Quality. We Walked Differently On Sundays, With Greater Propriety And Stateliness. Greetings Were More Formal, More Subdued, Voices More Meticulously Polite. Everything Was So Smooth, Bland, Polished. And Genuinely So, Because This Was Sunday. In Church The Rustling And The Stillness Were Alike Pervaded With The Knowledge That All Was For The Best. Propriety Ruled The Universe. God Was In His Heaven, And We Were In Our Sunday Clothes.

No One In A Group Of Three Is The Same Person He (she, It) Is In A Group Of Two. No More Than He Is The Same In A Group Of Two As He Is Alone.

I Can Imagine Nothing More Wonderful Than Always Wanting To Keep A Man. It's This Not Wanting To Keep Them, And Yet Not Quite Being Able To Disentangle One's Self, Never Quite Having The Ruthlessness To Stike At The Hands On The Gunwale With An Oar Until They Let Go - That's The Horrible Thing.