If there is a subject that is my own$$$ my dear Ellen$$$ as a writer I mean$$$ it is the persistent shape-shifting life of things long-dead but not vanished.

You know$$$ it's a truism that writers for children must still be children themselves$$$ deep down$$$ must still feel childish feelings$$$ and a child's surprise at the world.

We must come to grief and regret anyway - and I for one would rather regret the reality than its phantasm$$$ knowledge than hope$$$ the deed than the hesitation$$$ true life and not mere sickly potentialities.

Let us be grateful to the mirror for revealing to us our appearance only.

Books are like imprisoned souls till someone takes them down from a shelf and frees them.

I found that I couldn't muster any belief in a literal heaven or hell$$$ anyway. I thought the best we could all do was to look after one another and clean up the various hells we've made right here on earth.

Your people contain incredible potential$$$ but they die without using much of it.

Purpose<br/>Unifies us:<br/>It focuses our dreams$$$<br/>Guides our plans$$$<br/>Strengthens our efforts.<br/>Purpose<br/>Defines us$$$<br/>Shapes us$$$<br/>And offers us<br/>Greatness.

After a few years of watching the human species make things unnecessarily difficult for itself I have little hope that it will do anything more than survive and continue its cycle of errors.

That which could hunger$$$ could starve.