A Minor Symptom Of Wars Is The

She Did Not So Much Cook As Assassinate Food.

To Grow Old Is To Have Taken Away, One By One, All Gifts Of Life, The Food And Wine, The Music And The Company. ... The Gods Unloose, One By One, The Mortal Fingers That Cling To The Edge Of The Table.

Writing Was A Chimney For My Blazing Ambitions.

Nationalism Will Keep Its Venom Until We Succeed In Creating An Image Of The Nations Of The Whole World As So Many Provinces.

The Older I Grow The More Sharply I Mistrust Words. So Few Of Them Have Any Meaning Left. It Is Impossible To Write One Sentence In Which Every Word Has The Bareness And Hardness Of Bones, The Reality Of The Skeleton.