The World Is Certainty A Sudden Place.

Once You Have Lived With Another, It Is A Great Torture To Have To Live Alone.

She Was Afraid Of These Things That Made Her Suddenly Wonder Who She Was, And What She Was Going To Be In The World, And Why She Was Standing At That Minute, Seeing A Light, Or Listening, Or Staring Up Into The Sky: Alone.

Don't You Loathe It When Doctors Use The Word 'we' When It Applies Only And Solely To Yourself?

The Dimensions Of A Work Of Art Are Seldom Realized By The Author Until The Work Is Accomplished. It Is Like A Flowering Dream. Ideas Grow, Budding Silently, And There Are A Thousand Illuminations Coming Day By Day As The Work Progresses. A Seed Grows In Writing As In Nature. The Seed Of The Idea Is Developed By Both Labor And The Unconscious, And The Struggle That Goes On Between Them.

The Music Left Only This Bad Hurt In Her, And A Blankness. She Could Not Remember Any Of The Symphony, Not Even The Last Few Notes. She Tried To Remember, But No Sound At All Came To Her. Now That It Was Over There Was Only Her Heart Like A Rabbit And This Terrible Hurt.