People Say That Life Is The Thing,

How Can They Say My Life Is Not A Success? Have I Not For More Than Sixty Years Got Enough To Eat And Escaped Being Eaten?

But Why Wasn't I Born, Alas, In An Age Of Adjectives; Why Can One No Longer Write Of Silver-shedding Tears And Moon-tailed Peacocks, Of Eloquent Death, Of The Negro And Star-enameled Night?

It Is The Dread Of Something Happening, Something Unknown And Dreadful, That Makes Us Do Anything To Keep The Flicker Of Talk From Dying Out.

The Mere Process Of Growing Old Together Will Make The Slightest Acquaintance Seem A Bosom Friend.

Friends Such As We Desire Are Dreams And Fables, Yet We Never Quite Give Up The Hope Of Finding Them.