We Only Do Well The Things We

A Pretty Little Collection Of Weaknesses And A Terror Of Spiders Are Our Indispensable Stock-in-trade With The Men...

There Are Days When Solitude, For Someone My Age, Is A Heady Wine That Intoxicates You With Freedom, Others When It Is A Bitter Tonic, And Still Others When It Is A Poison That Makes You Beat Your Head Against The Wall.

At The Top Of The Iron Staircase Leading To The Stage, The Good, Dry, Dusty Warmth Wraps Me Round Like A Comfortable Dirty Cloak.

The Only Virtue On Which I Pride Myself Is My Self-doubt; When A Writer Loses Her Self-doubt, The Time Has Come To Lay Aside Her Pen.

As For An Authentic Villain, The Real Thing, The Absolute, The Artist, One Rarely Meets Him Even Once In A Lifetime. The Ordinary Bad Hat Is Always In Part A Decent Fellow.