As A Matter Of Fact, I Think

The Sad Fact Is That I Love Dickens And Donne And Keats And Eliot And Forster And Conrad And Fitzgerald And Kafka And Wilde And Orwell And Waugh And Marvell And Greene And Sterne And Shakespeare And Webster And Swift And Yeats And Joyce And Hardy, Really, Really Love Them. It’s Just That They Don’t Love Me Back.

You Know What I Can't Understand? You Have All These People Telling You All The Time How Great You Are, Smart And Funny And Talented And All That, I Mean Endlessly, I've Been Telling You For Years. So Why Don't You Believe It? Why Do You Think People Say That Stuff, Em? Do You Think It's A Conspiracy, People Secretly Ganging Up To Be Nice About You?

Read A Book At The Right Age And It Will Stay With You For Life.

Salmon. Salmon, Salmon, Salmon, Salmon. I Eat So Much Salmon At These Weddings, Twice A Year I Get This Urge To Swim Upstream.

These Days Grief Seems Like Walking On A Frozen River; Most Of The Time He Feels Safe Enough, But There Is Always That Danger That He Will Plunge Through. Now He Hears The Ice Creak Beneath Him, And So Intense And Panicking Is The Sensation That He Has To Stand For A Moment, Press His Hands To His Face And Catch His Breath.