Telegram to a friend who had just become a mother after a prolonged pregnancy: Good work, Mary. We all knew you had it in you.

Her mind lives tidily, apart from cold and noise and pain. And bolts the door against her heart, out wailing in the rain.

You do what you can, and you do it because you should. But all you can do is all you can do.

If wild my breast and sore my pride, I bask in dreams of suicide, If cool my heart and high my head I think 'How lucky are the dead.

Take me or leave me; or, as is the usual order of things, both.

Tonstant Weader fwowed up.

You can't teach an old dogma new tricks.