I've Lived My Life Again Just Telling

I Had To Wonder If Men Were So Blinded By Beauty That They Would Feel Privileged To Live Their Lives With An Actual Demon, So Long As It Was A Beautiful Demon.

I Could No More Have Stopped Myself From Feeling That Sadness Than You Could Stop Yourself From Smelling An Apple That Has Been Cut Open On The Table Before You.

No One Knows The Author Of Memoir So Well Like Himself.

Autobiography, If There Really Is Such A Thing, Is Like Asking A Rabbit To Tell Us What He Looks Like Hopping Through The Grasses Of The Field. How Would He Know? If We Want To Hear About The Field On The Other Hand, No One Is In A Better Circumstance To Tell Us-so Long As We Keep In Mind That We Are Missing All Those Things The Rabbit Was In No Position To Observe.

What An Unbearable Sorrow It Would Be, To Realized I'd Never Really Tasted To Things I'd Eaten, Or Seen The Places I'd Been. What Life Would I Have? I Would Be Like The Dancer Who Had Practiced Since Childhood For A Performance She Would Never Give.