I Loathed Every Day And

That’s One Of The Nice Things About Writing, Or Any Art; If The Thing’s Real, It Just Lives. All The Attendant Hoopla About It, The Success Over It Or The Critical Rejection—none Of That Really Matters. In The End, The Thing Will Survive Or Not On Its Own Merits. Not That Immortality Via Art Is Any Big Deal. Truffaut Died, And We All Felt Awful About It, And There Were The Appropriate Eulogies, And His Wonderful Films Live On. But It’s Not Much Help To Truffaut.

When A Doctor Makes A Mistake, It's Best To Bury The Subject.

Therefore, To Be Unhappy One Must Love, Or Love To Suffer, Or Suffer From Too Much Happiness. I Hope You're Getting This Down.

I Wish I Could Think Of A Positive Point To Leave You With. Will You Take Two Negative Points?

The Baby Is Fine. The Only Problem Is That He Looks Like Edward G. Robinson.