The More Immoral We Become

The American Woman's Concept Of Marriage Is A Clearly Etched Picture Of Something Uninflated On The Floor. A Sleeping-bag Withoutair, A Beanbag Without Beans, A Padded Bra Without Pads. To Work On It, You Start Pumping--what The Magazines Call "breathing Life Into Your Marriage." Do Enough Of This And The Marriage Becomes A Kind Of Banquo's Ghost, A Quasi-living Entity.

Resistance To Team Play Seemed To Pour Like Wet Cement Through My Bones, Displacing Supple Marrow, Until I Was Ballasted With My Own Contempt.

Of All The Old Maid's Blessing, The Greatest Is Carte Blanche. Spinsterhood Is Powerful; Once A Woman Is Called "that Crazy Old Maid" She Can Get Away With Anything.

When You Go Apartment-hunting In The South, You Encounter Little Old Ladies Who Ask You If You Use Strong Drink. In New York You Encounter Paranoids Who Wonder If You Will Commit Suicide--not That They Care; What They Worry About Is Blood On Their Fresh Paint, A Dubious Smell In The Hallway, Or A Hole In The Awning As You Pass Through On Your Way To The Sidewalk. The Southerner Who Moves To Any Part Of The Country Has Problems, But The Culture Shock That Attacks The Southerner Who Moves North Is Almost Indescribable.

If We Define A Misanthrope As 'someone Who Does Not Suffer Fools And Likes To See Fools Suffer,' We Have Described A Person With Something To Look Forward To.