I Write Emotional Algebra.

You Live Out The Confusions Until They Become Clear.

I Am In Great Terror Of Your Understanding By Which You Penetrate Into My World; And Then I Stand Revealed And I Have Shared My Kingdom With You.

The Frenchman, By Nature, Is Sensuous And Sensitive. He Has Intelligence, Which Makes Him Tired Of Life Sooner Than Other Kinds Of Men. He Is Not Athletic: He Sees The Futility Of The Pursuit Of Fame; The Climate At Times Depresses Him.

We Travel, Some Of Us Forever, To Seek Other States, Other Lives, Other Souls.

We Sit On The Kitchen Exchanging These Diabolical Outgrowths Of Overfertile Minds.