Almost Every Person Has Something

I Sat In The Gradually Chilling Room, Thinking Of My Whole Past The Way A Drowning Man Is Supposed To, And It Seemed Part Of The Present, Part Of The Gray Cold And The Beggar Woman Without A Face And The Moulting Birds Frozen To Their Own Filth In The Orangerie. I Know Now I Was In The Throes Of Some Small Glandular Crisis, A Sublimated Bilious Attack, A Flick From The Whip Of Melancholia, But Then It Was Terrifying...nameless...

A Well-made Martini Or Gibson, Correctly Chilled And Nicely Served, Has Been More Often My True Friend Than Any Two-legged Creature.

For Anyone Addicted To Reading Commonplace Books . . . Finding A Good New One Is Much Like Enduring A Familiar Recurrence Of Malaria, With Fever, Fits Of Shaking, Strange Dreams . . . .

...i Prefer Not To Have Among My Guests Two People Or More, Of Any Sex, Who Are In The First Wild Tremours Of Love. It Is Better To Invite Them After Their New Passion Has Settled, Has Solidified Into A Quieter Reciprocity Of Emotions. (it Is Also A Waste Of Good Food, To Serve It To New Lovers.)

I Like Old People When They Have Aged Well. And Old Houses With An Accumulation Of Sweet Honest Living In Them Are Good. And The Timelessness That Only The Passing Of Time Itself Can Give To Objects Both Inside And Outside The Spirit Is A Continuing Reassurance.