A Kiss Without A Mustache Is Like

As Novices, We Think We're Entirely Responsible For The Way People Treat Us. I Have Long Since Learned That We Are Responsible Only For The Way We Treat People.

Even The Street, The Sunshine, The Very Air Had A Special Sunday Quality. We Walked Differently On Sundays, With Greater Propriety And Stateliness. Greetings Were More Formal, More Subdued, Voices More Meticulously Polite. Everything Was So Smooth, Bland, Polished. And Genuinely So, Because This Was Sunday. In Church The Rustling And The Stillness Were Alike Pervaded With The Knowledge That All Was For The Best. Propriety Ruled The Universe. God Was In His Heaven, And We Were In Our Sunday Clothes.

Making The Best Of Things Is A Damn Poor Way Of Dealing With Them. My Life Has Been A Series Of Escapes From That Quicksand.

The First Twenty Years Of My Life Were Wasted. I Didn't Fit My Environment, And I Didn't Know Any Other.

The Longest Lives Are Short; Our Work Lasts Longer.