The Press blew, the public stared, hands flew out like a million little fishes after bread.

Why do birds sing in the morning? It's the triumphant shout: 'We got through another night!'

It's not till sex has died out between a man and a woman that they can really love. And now I mean affection. Now I mean to be fond of (as one is fond of oneself) -to hope, to be disappointed, to live inside the other heart. When I look back on the pain of sex, the love like a wild fox so ready to bite, the antagonism that sits like a twin beside love, and contrast it with affection, so deeply unrepeatable, of two people who have lived a life together (and of whom one must die) it's the affection I find richer. It's that I would have again. Not all those doubtful rainbow colors.

The Press blew, the public stared, hands flew out like a million little fishes after bread.

An only child is never twelve.

A father is always making his baby into a little woman. And when she is a woman he turns her back again.

One's palate is reborn every morning!