Well, To Be Honest I Think I

(on Grief) And You Do Come Out Of It, That’s True. After A Year, After Five. But You Don’t Come Out Of It Like A Train Coming Out Of A Tunnel, Bursting Through The Downs Into Sunshine And That Swift, Rattling Descent To The Channel; You Come Out Of It As A Gull Comes Out Of An Oil-slick. You Are Tarred And Feathered For Life.

I Don't Believe In God, But I Miss Him.

The Companionship Of Dead Writers Is A Wonderful Form Of Live Friendship.

Irony ... May Be Defined As What People Miss.

Time...give Us Enough Time And Our Best-supported Decisions Will Seem Wobbly, Our Certainties Whimsical.