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Love was never at issue. And, perhaps because I was so perpetually intoxicated and instructed by Laurel and Hardy during my childhood in the Great Depression, I find it natural to discuss life without ever mentioning love. It does not seem important to me. What does seem important? Bargaining in good faith with destiny.
He was somehow like a summer squash on the vine—featureless and watery, and merely growing larger all the time.
MOTHER TALKED toward the end, too, about how much she hated unnatural things—synthetic flavors and fibers and plastics and so on. She loved silk and cotton and linen and wool and leather, she said, and clay and glass and stone. She
I said that all the damaging excesses of Americans in the past were motivated by loneliness rather than a fondness for sin.
As I have already said, I was fully aware that I was not the sort of lumber out of which happy marriages were made.
