I'd Rather Be At The

London, How Could One Ever Be Tired Of It?

What Really Annoys Me Are The Ones Who Write To Say, I Am Doing Your Book For My Final Examinations And Could You Please Tell Me What The Meaning Of It Is. I Find It Just So Staggering--that You're Supposed To Explain The Meaning Of Your Book To Some Total Stranger! If I Knew What The Meanings Of My Books Were, I Wouldn't Have Bothered To Write Them.

Men And Women Can Never Be Close. They Can Hardly Speak To One Another In The Same Language. But Are Compelled, Forever, To Try, And Therefore Even In Defeat There Is No Peace.

There Are Some Writers Who Wrote Too Much. There Are Others Who Wrote Enough. There Are Yet Others Who Wrote Nothing Like Enough To Satisfy Their Admirers, And Jane Austen Is Certainly One Of These.

Because If One Has An Image, However Dim And Romantic, Of A Journey's End, One May, In The End, Surely Reach It, After No Matter How Many Detours And Deceptions And Abandonings Of Hope. And Hope Could Never Have Been Entirely Abandoned, Even In The Worst Days.