You Must Learn To Deal

So Much Of Our Early Gladness Vanishes Utterly From Our Memory: We Can Never Recall The Joy With Which We Laid Our Heads On Our Mother's Bosom Or Rode On Our Father's Back In Childhood; Doubtless That Joy Is Wrought Up Into Our Nature, As The Sunlight Of Long-past Mornings Is Wrought Up In The Soft Mellowness Of The Apricot; But It Is Gone Forever From Our Imagination, And We Can Only Believe In The Joy Of Childhood.

Where Women Love Each Other, Men Learn To Smother Their Mutual Dislike.

We Are All Of Us Imaginative In Some Form Or Other, For Images Are The Brood Of Desire.

Upon My Word, I Think The Truth Is The Hardest Missile One Can Be Pelted With.

One Can Say Everything Best Over A Meal.