Really, Trees Are Nearly As Important As

This Alone Is To Be Feared - The Closed Mind, The Sleeping Imagination, The Death Of The Spirit. The Death Of The Body Is To That, I Think, A Little Thing.

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!

I Advise Nobody To Drown Sorrow In Cocoa. It Is Bad For The Figure And It Does Not Alleviate The 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.