How Could I Be Anything But A

A Human Soul Devoid Of Longing Was A Soul Deformed, Deprived Of Its Highest Good, Sick Unto Death.

You Never Have To Change Anything You Got Up In The Middle Of The Night To Write.

It Would Not Be Practical For Her To Hate Herself. Luckily, God Sends A Substitute, A Husband.

Losing A Parent Is Something Like Driving Through A Plate-glass Window. You Didn't Know It Was There Until It Shattered, And Then For Years To Come You're Picking Up The Pieces -- Down To The Last Glassy Splinter.

You Have, Like The External World, Your Own Phenomena Inside.