Boston - Wrinkled, Spindly-legged, Depleted Of Nearly

The Fifties - They Seem To Have Taken Place On A Sunny Afternoon That Asked Nothing Of You Except A Drifting Belief In The Moment And Its Power To Satisfy.

A Letter Is Not A Dialogue Or Even An Omniscient Exposition. It Is A Fabric Of Surfaces, A Mask, A Form As Well Suited To Affectations As To The Affections. The Letter Is, By Its Natural Shape, Self-justifying; It Is One's Own Evidence, Deposition, A Self-serving Testimony. In A Letter The Writer Holds All The Cards, Controls Everything About Himself And About Those Assertions He Wishes To Make Concerning Events Or The Worth Of Others. For Completely Self-centered Characters, The Letter Form Is A Complex And Rewarding Activity.

Gossip, Or, As We Gossips Like To Say, Character Analysis.

While You Are Living, Part Of You Has Slipped Away To The Cemetery.

Self-love Is An Idolatry. Self-hatred Is A Tragedy.