Oh, Time Betrays Us. Time Is The

Love Needs The Stiffening Of Respect, The Give And Take Of Equality.

Sorrow And Frustration Have Their Power. The World Is Moved By People With Great Discontents. Happiness Is A Drug. It Can Make Men Blind And Deaf And Insensible To Reality. There Are Times When Only Sorrow Can Give To Sorrow.

Why, Why, When One Writes, Does A Sort Of Shackle Bind One's Imagination? I Become Conscious Of A Deadening Mediocrity, Perhaps A Form Of Mental Cowardice, And I Long To Break Free, To Let My Imagination Take Wings. It Doesn't - Yet.

The Greatest Mercy, I Have Often Thought, Of The Mediterranean Coast Lies In Its Mosquitoes. Did We Not Suffer From Their Unwelcome Attention, We Could Not Bear Our Holidays To End.

Most Gay, Conversational, Careless, Lovely City ... Where One Drinks Golden Tokay Until One Feels Most Beautiful, And Warm And Loved - Oh, Budapesth!