A light snow, a snow so faint and small-bodied that it seems nothing more than a manifestation of the cold. - James Salter

I have never been able to write the story. I reach a certain point and cannot go on. The death of kings can be recited, but not of one’s child.

The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four -the years turn dry as leaves.'

Solitude. One knows instinctively it has benefits that must be more deeply satisfying than those of other conditions, but still it is difficult.