The Longest Lives Are Short; Our Work

Happiness Is Something That Comes Into Our Lives Through Doors We Don't Even Remember Leaving Open.

Writing Fiction Is An Endless And Always Defeated Effort To Capture Some Quality Of Life Without Killing It.

Life Is A Thin Narrowness Of Taken-for-granted, A Plank Over A Canyon In A Fog. There Is Something Under Our Feet, The Taken-for-granted. A Table Is A Table, Food Is Food, We Are We - Because We Don't Question These Things. And Science Is The Enemy Because It Is The Questioner. Faith Saves Our Souls Alive By Giving Us A Universe Of The Taken-for-granted.

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.