Often The Grind Of Book

You Grew Old First Not In Your Own Eyes, But In Other People's Eyes; Then, Slowly, You Agreed With Their Opinion Of You.

If You Remember Your Past Too Well You Start Blaming Your Present For It. Look What They Did To Me, That's What Caused Me To Be Like This, It's Not My Fault. Permit Me To Correct You: It Probably Is Your Fault. And Kindly Spare Me The Details.

Does Character Develop Over Time? In Novels, Of Course It Does: Otherwise There Wouldn't Be Much Of A Story. But In Life? I Sometimes Wonder. Our Attitudes And Opinions Change, We Develop New Habits And Eccentricities; But That's Something Different, More Like Decoration. Perhaps Character Resembles Intelligence, Except That Character Peaks A Little Later: Between Twenty And Thirty, Say. And After That, We're Just Stuck With What We've Got. We're On Our Own. If So, That Would Explain A Lot Of Lives, Wouldn't It? And Also - If This Isn't Too Grand A Word - Our Tragedy.

I'm A Complete Democrat In Terms Of Who Buys My Books.

It Took Me Some Years To Clear My Head Of What Paris Wanted Me To Admire About It, And To Notice What I Preferred Instead. Not Power-ridden Monuments, But Individual Buildings Which Tell A Quieter Story: The Artist's Studio, Or The Belle Epoque House Built By A Forgotten Financier For A Just-remembered Courtesan.