Life Was A Series Of

You Had To Endure Something Yourself Before It Touched You.

We Can See The Film Stars Of Yesterday In Yesterday’s Films, Hear The Voices Of Poest And Singers On A Record, Keep The Plays Of Dead Dramatists Upon Our Bookshelves, But The Actor Who Holds His Audience Captive For One Brief Moment Upon A Lighted Stage Vanishes Forever When The Curtain Falls.

Women Want Love To Be A Novel, Men A Short Story.

He Lacked Tenderness; He Was Rude; And He Had More Than A Streak Of Cruelty In Him; He Was A Thief And A Liar. He Stood For Everything She Feared And Hated And Despised; But She Knew She Could Love Him... This Was No Choice Made With The Mind.

They Are Not Brave, The Days When We Are Twenty-one. They Are Full Of Little Cowardices, Little Fears Without Foundation, And One Is So Easily Bruised, So Swiftly Wounded, One Falls To The First Barbed Word. To-day, Wrapped In The Complacent Armour Of Approaching Middle Age, The Infinitesimal Pricks Of Day By Day Brush One But Lightly And Are Soon Forgotten, But Then—how A Careless Word Would Linger, Becoming A Fiery Stigma, And How A Look, A Glance Over A Shoulder, Branded Themselves As Things Eternal.