If The Workers Took A Notion They

All The World Is Made Of Music. We Are All Strings On A Lyre. We Resonate. We Sing Together.

That Was One Thing You Found Out When You Were Stoned, Or Wasted, Or Feverish: That The World Was Always Turning And That Only A Healthy Mind Could Block Out The Sickening Whirl Of It.

I Have Nothing To Say For Myself, Only That I Have Always Tried To Make This Earth A Little Bit Better

It Bewildered Ig, The Idea That A Person Could Not Be Interested In Music. It Was Like Not Being Interested In Happiness.

Men, She Thought, Were One Of The World's Few Sure Comforts, Like A Fire On A Cold October Night, Like Cocoa, Like Broken-in-slippers. Their Clumsy Affections, Their Bristly Faces, And Their Willingness To Do What Needed To Be Done - Cook An Omelette, Change Lightbulbs, Make With Hugging - Sometimes Almost Made Being A Woman Fun.