Bina Rolls Her Eyes, Hands On Her

She Was A Natural Blonde, With Delicate Hands And Feet, And In Her Youthful Photographs One Saw A Girl With Mocking Eyes And A Tragic Smile, The Course Of Whose Life Would Conspire In Time To Transpose That Pair Of Adjectives.

Not Only Would I Never Want To Belong To Any Club That Would Have Me For A Member--if Elected I Would Wear Street Shoes Onto The Squash Court And Set Fire To The Ballroom Curtains.

The Truth Of Some Promises Is Not As Important As Whether Or Not You Can Believe In Them, With All Your Heart.

Art Is A Form Of Exploration, Of Sailing Off Into The Unknown Alone, Heading For Those Unmarked Places On The Map. If Children Are Not Permitted-not Taught-to Be Adventurers And Explorers As Children, What Will Become Of The World Of Adventure, Of Stories, Of Literature Itself?

There Was Something Unmistakably Exultant About The Mess That Rosa Had Made. Her Bedroom-studio Was At Once The Canvas, Journal, Museum, And Midden Of Her Life. She Did Not “decorate” It; She Infused It.