The World Is Not Enough

Love Of Life Is Born Of The Awareness Of Death, Of The Dread Of It.

And Then One Day When You're Playing Your Little Game You'll Suddenly Find Yourself Pinned Down Like A Butterfly.

Above All, He Liked It That Everything Was One's Own Fault. There Was Only Oneself To Praise Or Blame. Luck Was A Servant And Not A Master. Luck Had To Be Accepted With A Shrug Or Taken Advantage Of Up To The Hilt. But It Had To Be Understood And Recognized For What It Was And Not Confused With A Faulty Appreciation Of The Odds, For, At Gambling, The Deadly Sin Is To Mistake Bad Play For Bad Luck. And Luck In All Its Moods Had To Be Loved And Not Feared

I Am A Poet In Deeds--not Often In Words.

People Are Islands,' She Said. 'they Don't Really Touch. However Close They Are, They're Really Quite Separate. Even If They've Been Married For Fifty Years.