For The Last Third Of Life There

Knowing Cats, A Lifetime Of Cats, What Is Left Is A Sediment Of Sorrow Quite Different From That Due To Humans: Compounded Of Pain For Their Helplessness, Of Guilt On Behalf Of Us All.

Time Is The River On Which The Leaves Of Our Thoughts Are Carried Into Oblivion.

We've Got To Believe In Our Beautiful Impossible Blueprints.

Time And Distance From The First And Second World Wars Doesn't Seem To Lessen Their Horrors.

It Is Quite Easy To Remark The Absurdities And Contradictions Of A Country's Social System From Outside Its Borders, But Very Difficult If One Has Been Brought Up In It.