They're Beautiful. But Sad.' Everything's

Because A Star Explodes And A Thousand Worlds Like Ours Die, We Know This World Is. That Is The Smile: That What Might Not Be, Is.

How Can One Build A Better Self Unless On The Ruins Of The Old?

There Are Many Reasons Why Novelists Write, But They All Have One Thing In Common - A Need To Create An Alternative World.

In Some Mysterious Way Woods Have Never Seemed To Me To Be Static Things. In Physical Terms, I Move Through Them; Yet In Metaphysical Ones, They Seem To Move Through Me.

It's Despair At The Lack Of Feeling, Of Love, Of Reason In The World. It's Despair That Anyone Can Even Contemplate The Idea Of Dropping A Bomb Or Ordering That It Should Be Dropped. It's Despair That So Few Of Us Care. It's Despair That There's So Much Brutality And Callousness In The World. It's Despair That Perfectly Normal Young Men Can Be Made Vicious And Evil Because They've Won A Lot Of Money. And Then Do What You've Done To Me.