I Can Do A Book In Three

Spring Is Always Cruel, With Its False Promise Of Resurrection.

Another Dead Body. Every Year It Is The Same. Every Year, Another Dead Body.

In The Silence I Heard Bastet, Who Had Retreated Under The Bed, Carrying On A Mumbling, Profane Monologue. (if You Ask How I Knew It Was Profane, I Presume You Have Never Owned A Cat.)

Children, I Feel, Are As Much Entitled To Privacy As Human Beings.

I Do Hope You Have Some Money. I'm Getting Tired Of Hitting People.