I Am Never Happier Than When I

The Older I Grow The More Sharply I Mistrust Words. So Few Of Them Have Any Meaning Left. It Is Impossible To Write One Sentence In Which Every Word Has The Bareness And Hardness Of Bones, The Reality Of The Skeleton.

An Animal Is Not Cruel; It Lives Wholly In The Instant Leap On Its Prey, In The Present Taste Of Marrow Or Blood. Cruelty Begins With The Memory, And The Pleasures Of The Memory Are Impure; They Draw Their Strength Along Levels Where No Sun Has Reached.

Hope Is A Talent Like Any Other.

Language Is Memory And Metaphor.

Nothing Lasts. Not Even A Great Sorrow.