Books Are Where Things Are Explained To

The Rainbow In Place Of The Unicorn? Why Didn't God Just Restore The Unicorn? We Animals Would Have Been Happier With That, Instead Of A Big Hint In The Sky About God's Magnanimity Every Time It Stopped Raining.

The Imagination Doesn't Crop Annually Like A Reliable Fruit Tree. The Writer Has To Gather Whatever's There: Sometimes Too Much, Sometimes Too Little, Sometimes Nothing At All. And In The Years Of Glut There Is Always A Slatted Wooden Tray In Some Cool, Dark Attic, Which The Writer Nervously Visits From Time To Time; And Yes, Oh Dear, While He's Been Hard At Work Downstairs, Up In The Attic There Are Puckering Skins, Warning Spots, A Sudden Brown Collapse And The Sprouting Of Snowflakes. What Can He Do About It?

To Look At Ourselves From Afar, To Make The Subjective Suddenly Objective: This Gives Us A Psychic Shock.

Irony - The Modern Mode: Either The Devil’s Mark Or The Snorkel Of Sanity.

Love Is Just A System For Getting Someone To Call You Darling After Sex.