You don't want the children to know how afraid you are. You want to be sure their hold on life is steady, sturdy. Were mothers and fathers always this anxious, holding the ringing receiver close to the ear: 'Why don't they answer where could they be?
Late February, and the air's so balmy snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard will come, blighting our harbingers of spring, and the numbed yards will go back undercover. In Florida, it's strawberry season- shortcake, waffles, berries and cream will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
There's a conspiracy to protect the young, so they'll be fearless, it's why you travel - it's a way of trying to let go, of lying. You don't sit in a stiff chair and worry, you keep moving. Postcards from the Alamo, the Alhambra. . . . You, fainting at the Buddhist caves. Climbing with thousands on the Great Wall, . . . Having the time of your life, blistered and smiling. The acid of your fear could eat the world.
Paula Radcliffe
William Bushnell Stout
Serge Lang
Harry Blackstone, Jr.
Bat Masterson
Debbie Wasserman Schultz
Miriam Margolyes
Christian de Duve
Kevin Jonas
Moliere
Rob Brydon
Cindy Walker