One Keeps Forgetting Old Age

Time Spent With A Cat Is Never Wasted.

Truffles Must Come To The Table In Their Own Stock And As You Break Open This Jewel Sprung From A Poverty-stricken Soil, Imagine - If You Have Never Visited It - The Desolate Kingdom Where It Rules.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

I Love My Past, I Love My Present. I Am Not Ashamed Of What I Have Had, And I Am Not Sad Because I No Longer Have It.

I Have Found My Voice Again And The Art Of Using It.