I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly.

Life is short. From here to that old car you know so well there is a stretch of twenty, twenty-five paces. It is a very short walk. Make those twenty-five steps. Now. Right now. Come just as you are. And we shall live happily ever after.

My answer to your question'Does the writer have a social responsibility?' is NO.You owe me ten cents, sir.

Readers are not sheep, and not every pen tempts them.

I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust

My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.

Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth.