By An Image We Hold On To

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

The Faults Of Husbands Are Often Caused By The Excess Virtues Of Their Wives.

I've Entered The World Of Wine Without Any Professional Training, But A Definite Appetite For Good Bottles.

At The Top Of The Iron Staircase Leading To The Stage, The Good, Dry, Dusty Warmth Wraps Me Round Like A Comfortable Dirty Cloak.

Never Touch A Butterfly's Wing With Your Finger.