No Book Or Poem Is Ever Finished,

It's One Of The Strangest Attributes Of This Profession That When We Writers Get Exhausted Writing One Thing, We Relax By Writing Another.

No Book Or Poem Is Ever Finished, Merely Abandoned.

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.

There Were Reprints Of American Editorials. Liberals Saw It As A Resurgence Of Social Protest And Decried The Discrimination, Poverty, And Hunger That Had Provoked It. Conservative Columnists Acidly Pointed Out That Hungry People Don't Steal Stereo Systems First And Called For A Crackdown In Law Enforcement. All Of The Reasoned Editorials Sounded Hollow In Light Of The Perverse Randomness Of The Event. It Was As If Only A Thin Wall Of Electric Lighting Protected The Great Cities Of The World From Total Barbarism.

I Know What Cancer Was. How Is It Like Humankind?" Sek Hardeen's Perfectly Modulated, Softly Accented Tones Showed A Hint Of Agitation. "we Have Spread Out Through The Galaxy Like Cancer Cells Through A Living Body, Duré. We Multiply Without Thought To The Countless Life Forms That Must Die Or Be Pushed Aside So That We May Breed And Flourish. We Eradicate Competing Forms Of Intelligent Life.