Funny, Isn't It, How Your

Writing Is Not An Amusing Occupation. It Is A Combination Of Ditch-digging, Mountain-climbing, Treadmill And Childbirth.

To Be Alive Is A Fine Thing. It Is The Finest Thing In The World, Though Hazardous. It Is A Unique Thing. It Happens Only Once In A Lifetime. To Be Alive, To Know Consciously That You Are Alive, And To Relish That Knowledge -- This Is A Kind Of Magic. Or It May Be A Kind Of Madness, Exhilarating But Harmless.

Any Piece Of Furniture, I Don't Care How Beautiful It Is, Has Got To Be Lived With, And Kicked About, And Rubbed Down, And Mistreated By Servants, And Repolished, And Knocked Around And Dusted And Sat On Or Slept In Or Eaten Off Of Before It Develops Its Real Character ... A Good Deal Like Human Beings.

In New York The Sky Is Bluer, And The Grass Is Greener, And The Girls Are Prettier, And The Steaks Are Thicker, And The Buildings Are Higher, And The Streets Are Wider, And The Air Is Finer, Than The Sky, Or The Grass, Or The Girls, Or The Steaks, Or The Air Of Any Place Else In The World.

A Stricken Tree, A Living Thing, So Beautiful, So Dignified, So Admirable In Its Potential Longevity, Is, Next To Man, Perhaps The Most Touching Of Wounded Objects.