I learned, as the raft moved and I slid through the day, as the day slid through me, to let the task be master: which is only not to choose to do any… - John Crowley

With Graham Greene life is a precious, perpetual, snot-sodden whinge.

"One page a day, seven a week, thirty or thirty-one to the month. Fishing in his pocket for a tip, he came up with his pen, a thick black fountain pen. Fountain: it seemed less flowing, less forthcoming than that, in shape more like a bullet or a bomb. ("Novelty")"

You went around back, where in the playground kids were dangling from the jungle gym waiting for mothers; connie could feel their cold skinned knees and barked knuckles–Bunce always said that imagining pain and discomfort was worse for her than the real thing when it came, which it almost never did.