All Autobiography Is Self-indulgent.

It Wouldn't Make For Sanity Would It, Living With The Devil.

He Lacked Tenderness; He Was Rude; And He Had More Than A Streak Of Cruelty In Him; He Was A Thief And A Liar. He Stood For Everything She Feared And Hated And Despised; But She Knew She Could Love Him... This Was No Choice Made With The Mind.

Will You Look Into My Eyes And Tell Me That You Love Me Now?

I Am Glad It Cannot Happen Twice, The Fever Of First Love. For It Is A Fever, And A Burden, Too, Whatever The Poets May Say.

I Wondered How Many People There Were In The World Who Suffered, And Continued To Suffer, Because They Could Not Break Out From Their Own Web Of Shyness And Reserve, And In Their Blindness And Folly Built Up A Great Distorted Wall In Front Of Them That Hid The Truth.