Old Age Makes Caricatures Of Us All.

I Am Fifty Years Old And I Have Never Known What It Is To Love. I Can Write Those Words, Know Them To Be True, But Feel Only The Regret That A Tone-deaf Man Must Feel Because He Can't Appreicate Music, A Regret Less Keen Because It Is For Something Never Known, Not For Something Lost.

History, Which Interprets The Past To Understand The Present And Confront The Future Is The Least Rewarding Discipline For A Dying Species.

Most Of My Life I Have Needed More Time To Be On My Own.

What A Child Doesn't Receive He Can Seldom Later Give.

A Picnic May Well Be A Metaphor For Life. The Essentials For Happiness Are The Right Company, Moderate If Sanguine Expectations And A Reasonable Standard Of Physical Sustenance And Comfort, The Whole Being Bedeviled By The Belief That There Is Always Something Better To Be Had If Only One Presses On.