People change and forget to tell each other.
Haven't you lived in the South long enough to know that nothing is ever anybody's fault?
I don't think many writers like their best-known piece of work, particularly when it was written a long time ago.
One sits uncomfortably on a too comfortable cushion.
A room of one's own isn't nearly enough. A house, or, best, an island of one's own.
Unjust. How many times I've used that word, scolded myself with it. All I mean by it now is that I don't have the final courage to say that I refuse to preside over violations against myself, and to hell with justice.