There is a certain age at which a child looks at you in all earnestness and delivers a long, pleased speech in all the true inflections of spoken English, but with not one recognizable syllable. There is no way you can tell the child that if language had been a melody, he had mastered it and done well, but that since it was in fact a sense, he had botched it utterly.

A schedule defends from chaos and whim.

There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by.

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.

How we spend our days is of course how we spend our lives.