She Did Not So Much

One Of The Uncovenanted Benefits Of Living For A Long Time Is That, Having So Many More Dead Than Living Friends, Death Can Appear As A Step Backwards Into The Joyous Past.

Only One Person In A Thousand Knows The Trick Of Really Living In The Present. Most Of Us Spend Fifty-nine Minutes An Hour Living In The Past, With Regret For Lost Joys Or Shame For Things Badly Done (both Utterly Useless And Weakening) Or In A Future Which We Either Long For Or Dread. . . . There Is Only One Minute In Which You Are Alive, This Minute, Here And Now. The Only Way To Live Is By Accepting Each Minute As An Unrepeatable Miracle. Which Is Exactly What It Is-a Miracle And Unrepeatable.

Inevitably, The Flood Of Literary Pornography Loosed On Us Is Dulling Our Reactions Of Surprise Or Shock. Its Writers Are Forced To Raise The Ante, To Provide Stronger And Stronger Stimulants. Or Try To Provide Them, Since Both The Manner, The Naming Of Parts And The Few Inexpressive Four-letter Words, And The Matter, Are Narrowly Limited.

A Writer's First Duty Is To Be Clear. Clarity Is An Excellent Virtue. Like All Virtues It Can Be Pursued At Ruinous Cost. Paid, So Far As I Am Concerned, Joyfully.

There Is A Stage In Any Misery When The Victim Begins To Find A Deep Satisfaction In It.