Nothing Is As Far Away As One

At 19, Everything Is Possible And Tomorrow Looks Friendly.

It Is Impossible To Read For Pleasure From Something To Which You Are Both Father And Mother, Born In Such Travail That The Writer Despises The Thing That Enslaved Him.

Books, I Found, Had The Power To Make Time Stand Still, Retreat Or Fly Into The Future.

A Good Writer Is Not, Per Se, A Good Book Critic. No More So Than A Good Drunk Is Automatically A Good Bartender.

Death Is As Casual And Often As Unexpected As Birth. It Is As Difficult To Define Grief As Joy. Each Is Finite. Each Will Fade.