A Woman Who Acts Like A Fool

A Memoir Provides A Record Not So Much Of The Memoirist As Of The Memoirist's World.

At That Moment, Beauty Itself Struck Me As A Kind Of Painful Melancholy.

His Face Was Very Heavily Creased, And Into Each Crease He Had Tucked Some Worry Or Other, So That It Wasn't Really His Face Any Longer, But More Like A Tree That Had Nests Of Birds In All Of The Branches. He Had To Struggle Constantly To Manage It And Always Looked Worn Out From The Effort.

I Could No More Have Stopped Myself From Feeling That Sadness Than You Could Stop Yourself From Smelling An Apple That Has Been Cut Open On The Table Before You.

Autobiography, If There Really Is Such A Thing, Is Like Asking A Rabbit To Tell Us What He Looks Like Hopping Through The Grasses Of The Field. How Would He Know? If We Want To Hear About The Field On The Other Hand, No One Is In A Better Circumstance To Tell Us-so Long As We Keep In Mind That We Are Missing All Those Things The Rabbit Was In No Position To Observe.