At The Top Of The

The Only Virtue On Which I Pride Myself Is My Self-doubt; When A Writer Loses Her Self-doubt, The Time Has Come To Lay Aside Her Pen.

By Means Of An Image We Are Often Able To Hold On To Our Lost Belongings. But It Is The Desperateness Of Losing Which Picks The Flowers Of Memory, Binds The Bouquet.

What A Wonderful Life I've Had! I Only Wish I'd Realized It Sooner.

When She Raises Her Eyelids It's As If She Were Taking Off All Her Clothes.

Researchers, With Science As Their Authority, Will Be Able To Cut Animals Up, Alive, Into Small Pieces, Drop Them From A Great Height To See If They Are Shattered By The Fall, Or Deprive Them Of Sleep For Sixteen Days And Nights Continuously For The Purposes Of An Iniquitous Monograph. . . . Animal Trust, Undeserved Faith, When At Last Will You Turn Away From Us? Shall We Never Tire Of Deceiving, Betraying, Tormenting Animals Before They Cease To Trust Us?