I Like Any Place That

I Sat Staring Up At A Shelf In My Workroom From Which Thirty-one Books Identically Dressed In Neat Dark Green Leather Stared Back At Me With A Sort Of Cold Hostility Like Children Who Resent Their Parents. Don't Stare At Us Like That! They Said. Don't Blame Us If We Didn't Turn Out To Be The Perfection You Expected. We Didn't Ask To Be Brought Into The World.

I Don't Know What It Is That Makes A Writer Go To His Desk In His Shut-off Room Day After Day After Year After Year Unless It Is The Sure Knowledge That Not To Have Done The Daily Stint Of Writing That Day Is Infinitely More Agonizing Than To Write.

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.

Christmas Is Not A Season. It Is A Feeling.

Perhaps Too Much Of Everything Is As Bad As Too Little.