The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Hoping to live days of greater happiness, I forget that days of less happiness are passing by.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.

The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.

The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.

Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)

I HATED the Salinger story. It took me days to go through it, gingerly, a page at a time, and blushing with embarrassment for him every ridiculous sentence of the way. How can they let him do it?