Death Is Beautiful. It Alone Gives Love

It Is Restful, Tragedy, Because One Knows That There Is No More Lousy Hope Left. You Know You're Caught, Caught At Last Like A Rat With All The World On Its Back. And The Only Thing Left To Do Is Shout - Not Moan, Or Complain, But Yell Out At The Top Of Your Voice Whatever It Was You Had To Say. What You've Never Said Before. What Perhaps You Don't Even Know Till Now.

Things Are Beautiful If You Love Them.

Talent Is Like A Faucet, While It Is Open, One Must Write.

My Wife Was An Opera Singer, You Know. She Bellowed Her Way Through Wagner As A Valkyrie. I Married Her And Made Her Give Up The Theatre, To My Eternal Cost. She Was To Go On Acting For Myself Alone. A Performance At His Own Expense, Lasting For More Than Twenty Years, Tends To Wear Out Your Spectator.

One Can Be A Patriot, You Know, Without Making One's Wife Join The Breadline.