I Always Felt That The

Keeping Your Coat On Indoors In Russia, No Matter How Public The Place, Is Far Worse Than Keeping Your Hat On As The Flag Goes By. It Is Worse Than Going Into A Catholic Church In Spain With Your Upper Arms Bare. It Is Worse Than Telling A Mother Her Baby Bores You.

All The Humiliating, Tragicomic, Heartbreaking Things Happened To Me In My Girlhood, And Nothing Makes Me Happier Than To Realize I Cannot Possibly Relive My Youth.

People Are Subject To Moods, To Temptations And Fears, Lethargy And Aberration And Ignorance, And The Staunchest Qualities Shift Under The Stresses And Strains Of Daily Life.

Wart Hogs Should Sue For Libel. It Is A Terrible Name And They Are Fine Fellows And Devoted Family Men And It Is Rare To See One By Himself; The Little Woman And The Kiddies Are Usually Close At Hand.

The Theater Is A Baffling Business, And A Shockingly Wasteful One When You Consider That People Who Have Proven Their Worth, Who Have Appeared In Or Been Responsible For Successful Plays, Who Have Given Outstanding Performances, Can Still, In The Full Tide Of Their Energy, Be Forced, Through Lack Of Opportunity, To Sit Idle Season After Season, Their Enthusiasm, Their Morale, Their Very Talent Dwindling To Slow Gray Death. Of Finances We Will Not Even Speak; It Is Too Sad A Tale.