There Might Be Some Credit In Being

I Know Enough Of The World Now To Have Almost Lost The Capacity Of Being Much Surprised By Anything

My Dear Young Lady, Crime, Like Death, Is Not Confined To The Old And Withered Alone. The Youngest And Fairest Are Too Often Its Chosen Victims.

On The Motionless Branches Of Some Trees, Autumn Berries Hung Like Clusters Of Coral Beads, As In Those Fabled Orchards Where The Fruits Were Jewels . . .

And I Am Bored To Death With It. Bored To Death With This Place, Bored To Death With My Life, Bored To Death With Myself.

If A Pig Could Give His Mind To Anything, He Would Not Be A Pig.