What Is This Life But The Sound

I Want To Hear What's Happened To You," She Said Evenly After A While. She Gestured In The Direction, Down River, Of The Butcher Shop. "it's Just That There Is Nowhere Else To Start," She Said Gently. "niether Of Us Is The Same. But I'm Different Because Of Small, Good, Manageable Things. You're Different Because ... Things I Don't Know.

Add There Was That Moment When My Mother And Father Walked In The Door Disguised As Old People. I Thought The Miles In The Car Had Bent Them, Dulled Their Eyes, Even Grayed And Whitened Their Hair And Caused Their Hands And Voices To Tremble. At The Same Time, I Found, As I Rose Form The Chair, I'd Gotten Old Along With Them.

Money Helps, Though Not So Much As You Think When You Don't Have It.

History Works Itself Out In The Living.

Death Is The Least Civilized Rite Of Passage.