It's Odd How Violence And Humor So

It Is A Mystery, And To Tell The Truth, I Am Intrigued By Mysteries Even If This Is To Be My Last Week Of Enjoying Them. I Would Welcome Some Glimmer Of Understanding But, Failing That, Working On The Puzzle Will Suffice.

War Must Never Be A Condition But, Rather, A Temporary Scourge Which We Suffer As A Child Does A Fever, Knowing That Health Follows The Long Night Of Pain And That Peace Is Health.

I Think All The Simple Things Can And Do Still Work - Holding Your Child's Hand While Walking Across The Street Will Do It. But We Can Hardly Hear It For All The Noise Which Has Turned Love Into A Cliche, And Most People Can't Even Hear John Lennon's "all You Need Is Love" Anymore Without Wincing.

You've Probably Heard About The Theory Of Steam-engine Time - That Even After The Steam Engine Had Been Invented, It Had To Wait Until People Were Ready To Make Use Of It. The Same Thing Happens In Literary Circles. The Truth Is, I'm Not Terribly Interested In Victorian Times; I'm Interested In Victorian Writers. I'm Interested In Most Eras Of History, But Not The Victorian Era Especially. I Was Interested In The John Franklin Expedition. I Was Interested In These Last Five Weird Years Of Dickens' Life. And I Just Have To Take The Age That Comes With All That When I Write About It.

She Had Always Felt That The Essence Of Human Experience Lay Not Primarily In The Peak Experiences, The Wedding Days And Triumphs Which Stood Out In The Memory Like Dates Circled In Red On Old Calendars, But, Rather, In The Unself-conscious Flow Of Little Things - The Weekend Afternoon With Each Member Of The Family Engaged In His Or Her Own Pursuit, Their Crossings And Connections Casual, Dialogues Imminently Forgettable, But The Sum Of Such Hours Creating A Synergy Which Was Important And Eternal.