The Real Theater Of The

Sex For Many Has Become A Sorry Business, A Mechanical Release Involving Neither Discovery Nor Triumph, Stressing Human Isolation More Dishearte-ingly Than Ever Before.

Love, Love, Love – All The Wretched Cant Of It, Masking Egotism, Lust, Masochism, Fantasy Under A Mythology Of Sentimental Postures, A Welter Of Self-induced Miseries And Joys, Blinding And Masking The Essential Personalities In The Frozen Gestures Of Courtship, In The Kissing And The Dating And The Desire, The Compliments And The Quarrels Which Vivify Its Barrenness.

A Library Is A Place Where You Can Lose Your Innocence Without Losing Your Virginity.

We Can't Change The Moon But We Can Live In Harmony With Its Tides, And We Can Make Some Ripples Of Our Own.

Unless The Concepts Of Work And Play And Reward For Work Change Absolutely, Women Must Continue To Provide Cheap Labor, And Even More, Free Labor Exacted Of Right By An Employer Possessed Of A Contract For Life, Made Out In His Favor.