Why Is There Happiness And Comfort And

It Seems To Me That On One Page I Recognized A Portion Of An Old Diary Of Mine Which Mysteriously Disappeared Shortly After My Marriage, And, Also, Scraps Of Letters Which, Though Considerably Edited, Sound To Me Vaguely Familiar. In Fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (i Believe That Is How He Spells His Name) Seems To Believe That Plagiarism Begins At Home.

Memories Should Be Sharp When One Has Nothing Else To Live For

I Take A Sun Bath And Listen To The Hours, Formulating, And Disintegrating Under The Pines, And Smell The Resiny Hardihood Of The High Noon Hours. The World Is Lost In A Blue Haze Of Distances, And The Immediate Sleeps In A Thin And Finite Sun.

Women Sometimes Seem To Share A Quiet, Unalterable Dogma Of Persecution That Endows Even The Most Sophisticated Of Them With The Inarticulate Poignancy Of The Peasant.

Why Do We Spend Years Using Up Our Bodies To Nurture Our Minds With Experience And Find Our Minds Turning Then To Our Exhausted Bodies For Solace?