My old friend, water, my good companion, my beloved mother and father: I am its most natural offspring.

My eyes glaze over at a writer solving tiny problems.

Writers are entirely egocentric. To them, few things in their lives have meaning or importance unless they give promise of serving some creative purpose.

Talk uses up ideas. Once I have spoken them aloud, they are lost to me, dissipated into the noisy air like smoke. Only if I bury them, like bulbs, in the rich soil of silence do they grow.

My old friend, water, my good companion, my beloved mother and father: I am its most natural offspring.

We were determined by public opinions of us. Would we think we existed without outside confirmation? And how long would we live apart from others before we began to doubt our existence?

Praise requires constant renewal and expansion.