Being A Child Is In

Wine Is Poetry In A Bottle.

If You Want To Feel At Home, Stay Home.

There Is No Reader So Parochial As The One Who Reads None But This Morning's Books. Books Are Not Rolls, To Be Devoured Only When They Are Hot And Fresh. A Good Book Retains Its Interior Heat And Will Warm A Generation Yet Unborn.

To Divide One's Life By Years Is Of Course To Tumble Into A Trap Set By Our Own Arithmetic. The Calendar Consents To Carry On Its Dull Wall-existence By The Arbitrary Timetables We Have Drawn Up In Consultation With Those Permanent Commuters, Earth And Sun. But We, Unlike Trees, Need Grow No Annual Rings.

I Tried To Use The Questions And Answers As An Armature On Which To Build A Sculpture Of Genuine Conversation