In A Cat's Eye, All

It Is Not A Sentimental, But A Grimly Literal Fact That Unless We Share This Terrestrial Globe With Creatures Other Than Ourselves, We Shall Not Be Able To Live On It For Long.

Love Is ...not A Fact In Nature Of Which We Become Aware, But Rather A Creation Of The Human Imagination.

There Are Some Optimists Who Search Eagerly For The Skunk Cabbage Which In February Sometimes Pushes Itself Up Through The Ice, And Who Call It A Sign Of Spring. I Wish That I Could Feel That Way About It, But I Do Not. The Truth Of The Matter, To Me, Is Simply That Skunk Cabbage Blooms In The Winter Time.

The Mind Leaps, And Leaps Perhaps With A Sort Of Elation, Through The Immensities Of Space, But The Spirit, Frightened And Cold, Longs To Have Once More Above Its Head The Inverted Bowl Beyond Which May Lie Whatever Paradise Its Desires May Create.

Happiness Is Itself A Kind Of Gratitude.