Be that as it may, it’s all I have to work with. Clutching these faded, fading, imperfect memories to my breast, I go on writing this book with all the desperate intensity of a starving man sucking on bones.
When the world has been unkind, when life’s troubles cloud your mind, Don’t sit down and frown and sigh and moon and mope. Take a walk along the square, fill your lungs with God’s fresh air, Then go whistling back to work and smile and hope.
Making it up? said Marvin, swivelling his head in a parody of astonishment, Why should I want to make anything up? Life’s bad enough as it is without wanting to invent any more of it.
