...the Face Has Limited Space. My Mother

Remembering Bred Its Own Peculiar Sorrow. It Seemed So Unfair: That Time Should Render Both Sadness And Happiness Into A Source Of Pain.

What Folly Made Young People, Even Those In Middle Age, Think They Were Immortal? How Much Better, Their Lives, If They Could Remember The End. Carrying Your Death With You Every Day Would Make It Hard To Waste Time On Unkindness And Anger And Bitterness, On Anything Petty. That Was The Secret: Remembering Your Dying Time, In Order To Keep The Stupid And The Ugly Out Of Your Living Time.

Distance Was A Dangerous Thing, She Knew. Distance Changed People.

There Didn't Seem To Her Any Harm In It, And The Make-believe Was So Comforting.

Traffic In The Streets Of Bombay Is Chaotic At Best. Riding A Bicycle Is A Dangerous Occupation. However, There Are Hundreds Of Them On The Streets Competing With The Cars And Buses And Lorries Because It Is The Poor Man's Mode Of Transport.