At Sixty-three Years Of Age, Less A

A Woman Who Thinks She Is Intelligent Demands The Same Rights As Man. An Intelligent Woman Gives Up.

Perhaps The Only Misplaced Curiosity Is That Which Persists In Trying To Find Out Here, On This Side Of Death, What Lies Beyond The Grave.

Voluptuaries, Consumed By Their Senses, Always Begin By Flinging Themselves With A Great Display Of Frenzy Into An Abyss. But They Survive, They Come To The Surface Again. And They Develop A Routine Of The Abyss: It's Four O Clock. At Five I Have My Abyss.

Among All The Modernized Aspects Of The Most Luxurious Of Industries, The Model, A Vestige Of Voluptuous Barbarianism, Is Like Some Plunder-laden Prey. She Is The Object Of Unbridled Regard, A Living Bait, The Passive Realization Of An Ideal. No Other Female Occupation Contains Such Potent Impulses To Moral Disintegration As This One, Applying As It Does The Outward Signs Of Riches To A Poor And Beautiful Girl.

Writing Only Leads To More Writing.