I Cry Out For Order And Find

People Who Refuse To Rest Honorably On Their Laurels When They Reach Retirement Age Seem Very Admirable To Me.

All Through The Long Winter, I Dream Of My Garden. On The First Day Of Spring, I Dig My Fingers Deep Into The Soft Earth. I Can Feel Its Energy, And My Spirits Soar.

We May Be Living In The Twentieth Century, In Resplendent Sophistication. But Deep Down, Most Of Us Find Ourselves Still In The Stone Age Of Superstition.

One Has To Grow Up With Good Talk In Order To Form The Habit Of It.

The Old-fashioned Idea That The Simple Piling Up Of Experiences, One On Top Of Another, Can Make You An Artist, Is, Of Course, So Much Rubbish. If Acting Were Just A Matter Of Experience, Then Any Busy Harlot Could Make Garbo's Camille Pale.