Stories do not change the world. I’ve learned that. But perhaps in some secret, subtle way.... I mean it’s not the world I want to change.

I always had plenty of ideas. I didn’t exactly have them. They grew—little by little, a half an idea at a time. First, part of a phrase and then a person to go with it. After a person, then a little corner of a place for the person to be in.

Maybe it's animalness that will make the world right again: the wisdom of elephants, the enthusiasm of canines, the grace of snakes, the mildness of anteaters. Perhaps being human needs some diluting. At any rate, how nice to be well dressed and among friends and in a state where poems pop out by themselves.

Ah, but is it not the mind that is the real grace of Homo sapiens? All the things to think about! All the things to read and appreciate! All the arts! All the things of the spirit!

The world looks so beautiful! She wonders how one can not do for it anything that needs to be done, or at least all one can do.

May we all soon go about as our real selves and take joy in it, saying, yes, yes, to whatever we are.

She tips back her head and howls: Moooooown! Oh wonderful moooooowwwwwyyyn!

Whatever life brings, we'll share," she says, and "I can do no more than the best I can.

I shall love my kind of love anyway, doggedly, for I must certainly do the best I can with my own nature and if my nature is to love too well or from afar or to be grateful for crumbs...well, so be it.

It's American to be from somewhere else, and it's American to go from East to West. It's American to seek your fortune someplace other than where you are, or to be escaping something...