Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.

I was traveling in Europe with Paul and suddenly realized my passport still said I was Mrs. Sampson.

So much depends on my actions, so I am seeing fewer people, simplifying my life, organizing it so that I am not always on the edge of irritability.

And I&#39;ve always worked on the principle that if it interests me enough to write about it, then it must interest a lot of other people.

Written By Morris West

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