You Want To Give Him

Like The Morning You Walked Out Of That Old House, When You Were Eighteen And I Was, Well, I Had Just Turned Nineteen, Hadn't I? I Was A Nineteen-year-old And I Was In Love With Louis And I Was In Love With You, And I Thought I Had Never Seen Anything So Beautiful As The Sight Of You Walking Out A Glass Door In The Early Morning, Still Sleepy, In Your Underwear. Isn't It Strange?

A Writer Should Always Feel Like He's In Over His Head

There Is Just This For Consolation: An Hour Here Or There, When Our Lives Seem, Against All Odds And Expectations, To Burst Open And Give Us Everything We've Ever Imagined , Though Everyone But Children (and Perhaps Even They) Knows These Hours Will Inevitably Be Followed By Others, Far Darker And More Difficult. Still, We Cherish The City, The Morning, We Hope, More Than Anything, For More. Heaven Only Knows Why We Love It So.

I Am Beginning To Understand The True Difference Between Youth And Age. Young People Have Time To Make Plans And Think Of New Ideas. Older People Need Their Whole Energy To Keep Up With What’s Already Been Set In Motion.

I Remember One Morning Getting Up At Dawn, There Was Such A Sense Of Possibility. You Know, That Feeling? And I Remember Thinking To Myself: So, This Is The Beginning Of Happiness. This Is Where It Starts. And Of Course There Will Always Be More. It Never Occurred To Me It Wasn't The Beginning. It Was Happiness. It Was The Moment. Right Then.