Death Is The Only Real Elegance.

She Refused To Be Bored Chiefly Because She Wasn't Boring.

The Trouble With Emergencies Is," She Said, "that I Always Put On My Finest Underwear And Then Nothing Happens.

It Seems To Me That On One Page I Recognized A Portion Of An Old Diary Of Mine Which Mysteriously Disappeared Shortly After My Marriage, And, Also, Scraps Of Letters Which, Though Considerably Edited, Sound To Me Vaguely Familiar. In Fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (i Believe That Is How He Spells His Name) Seems To Believe That Plagiarism Begins At Home.

I Play The Radio And Moon About...and Dream Of Utopias Where Its Always July The 24th 1935, In The Middle Of Summer Forever.

I Don’t Suppose I Really Know You Very Well - But I Know You Smell Like The Delicious Damp Grass That Grows Near Old Walls And That Your Hands Are Beautiful Opening Out Of Your Sleeves And That The Back Of Your Head Is A Mossy Sheltered Cave When There Is Trouble In The Wind And That My Cheek Just Fits The Depression In Your Shoulder.