I Can't Read Or Sleep.

I Wish I Could Write A Beautiful Book To Break Those Hearts That Are Soon To Cease To Exist: A Book Of Faith And Small Neat Worlds And Of People Who Live By The Philosophies Of Popular Songs.

People Are Like Almanacs, Bonnie - You Never Can Find The Information You're Looking For, But The Casual Reading Is Well Worth The Trouble.

It Seems To Me That On One Page I Recognized A Portion Of An Old Diary Of Mine Which Mysteriously Disappeared Shortly After My Marriage, And, Also, Scraps Of Letters Which, Though Considerably Edited, Sound To Me Vaguely Familiar. In Fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (i Believe That Is How He Spells His Name) Seems To Believe That Plagiarism Begins At Home.

Looking For Love Is Like Asking For A New Point Of Departure ... Another Chance In Life.

Scott-there's Nothing In The World I Want But You-and Your Precious Love. All The Material Things Are Nothing. I'd Just Hate To Live In A Sordid, Colorless Existence-because You'd Soon Love Less-and Less-and I'd Do Anything-anything-to Keep Your Heart For My Own-i Don't Want To Live-i Want To Love First And Live Incidentally.