I wish I could be a grandmother. It is wanton extravagance to have had a youth with no one to tell of it to when one grows old.

Happy is the day whose history is not written down.

The body, after all, older and wiser than soul, being first created, and, like a good horse, if given its way would go home by the best path and at the right pace.

Sneezes ... always sound much louder to the sneezer than to the hearers. It is an acoustical peculiarity.

But what are wishes, compared with longings?

Here is a kitchen improvement, in return for Peacock. For roasting or basting a chicken, render down your fat or butter with cider: about a third cider. Let it come together slowly, till the smell of cider and the smell of fat are as one. This will enliven even a frozen chicken.

One doesn’t become a witch to run around being helpful either…. It’s to escape all that – to have a life of one’s own, not an existence doled out to you by others, charitable refuse of their thoughts, so many ounces of stale bread of life a day.