When I'm Writing Solitude Feels Very Good.

She Was A Natural Blonde, With Delicate Hands And Feet, And In Her Youthful Photographs One Saw A Girl With Mocking Eyes And A Tragic Smile, The Course Of Whose Life Would Conspire In Time To Transpose That Pair Of Adjectives.

[i]n 1938, Superman Appeared. He Had Been Mailed To The Offices Of National Periodical Publications From Cleveland, By A Couple Of Jewish Boys Who Had Imbued Him With The Powers Of A Hundred Men, Of A Distant World, And Of The Full Measure Of Their Bespectacled Adolescent Hopefulness And Desperation.

The Instructor, Ms. Pease, Also Taught In The Church's Religious School, And She Had A Sunday School Manner At Once Saccharine And Condemnatory.

Procrastination Is Something You Do Yourself. You Know: "i Gotta Sharpen These Pencils Before I Start. I Got 20 Pencils, They're Looking Kinda Dull." Well, The Pencils Aren't Calling You And Alluring You And Inviting You And Offering You Anything. They're Just Sitting There. You're The One Who's Procrastinating.

It Struck Me That The Chief Obstacle To Marital Contentment Was This Perpetual Gulf Between The Well-founded, Commendable Pessimism Of Women And The Sheer Dumb Animal Optimism Of Men, The Latter A Force More Than Any Other Responsible For The Lamentable State Of The World.