Isak Dinesen said that she wrote a little every day, without hope and without despair. I like that.

Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.

She serves me a piece of it a few minutes out of the oven. A little steam rises from the slits on top. Sugar and spice - cinnamon - burned into the crust. But she's wearing these dark glasses in the kitchen at ten o'clock in the morning - everything nice - as she watches me break off a piece, bring it to my mouth, and blow on it. My daughter's kitchen, in winter. I fork the pie in and tell myself to stay out of it. She says she loves him. No way could it be worse.

What good are insights? They only make things worse.

It's strange. You never start out life with the intention of becoming a bankrupt or an alcoholic or a cheat and a thief. Or a liar.

I dressed and went for a walk - determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer.

She won't give him back his look.