Things Come Suitable To The

Marriage. The Beginning And The End Are Wonderful. But The Middle Part Is Hell.

It's Not Till Sex Has Died Out Between A Man And A Woman That They Can Really Love. And Now I Mean Affection. Now I Mean To Be Fond Of (as One Is Fond Of Oneself) -to Hope, To Be Disappointed, To Live Inside The Other Heart. When I Look Back On The Pain Of Sex, The Love Like A Wild Fox So Ready To Bite, The Antagonism That Sits Like A Twin Beside Love, And Contrast It With Affection, So Deeply Unrepeatable, Of Two People Who Have Lived A Life Together (and Of Whom One Must Die) It's The Affection I Find Richer. It's That I Would Have Again. Not All Those Doubtful Rainbow Colors.

In Marriage There Are No Manners To Keep Up, And Beneath The Wildest Accusations No Real Criticism. Each Is Familiar With That Ancient Child In The Other Who May Erupt Again. We Are Not Ridiculous To Ourselves. We Are Ageless. That Is The Luxury Of The Wedding Ring.

One's Palate Is Reborn Every Morning!

But I Had Been In Love Pretty Often And I Didn't Think It Stood The Wear And Tear.