Making Love, We Are All

I Am For The Ones Who Represent Sense, And So Was Jane Austen.

Others Are To Us Like The Characters In Fiction, Eternal And Incorrigible; The Surprises They Give Us Turn Out In The End To Have Been Predictable And Unexpected Variations On The Theme Of Being Themselves.

Any Sizeable Portuguese Town Looks Like A Superstitious Bride's Finery - Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, And Something Blue.

You Can Date The Evolving Life Of A Mind, Like The Age Of A Tree, By The Rings Of Friendship Formed By The Expanding Central Trunk.

I Suppose Everyone Continues To Be Interested In The Quest For The Self, But What You Feel When You're Older, I Think, Is That ... You Really Must Make The Self. It Is Absolutely Useless To Look For It, You Won't Find It, But It's Possible In Some Sense To Make It. I Don't Mean In The Sense Of Making A Mask, A Yeatsian Mask. But You Finally Begin In Some Sense To Make And Choose The Self You Want.