Death Is The Great Gamer With A

Day And Night She Had Drudged And Struggled And Thrown Her Soul Into Her Work, And There Was Not Much Of Her Left Over For Anything Else. Being Human, She Suffered From This Lack And Did What She Could To Make Up For It. If She Passed The Evening Bent Over A Table In The Library And Later Declared That She Had Spent That Time Playing Cards, It Was As Though She Had Managed To Do Both Those Things. Through The Lies, She Lived Vicariously. The Lies Doubled The Little Of Her Existence That Was Left Over From Work And Augmented The Little Rag End Of Her Personal Life.

The Value And Quality Of Any Love Is Determined Solely By The Lover Himself.

Nothing Is So Musical As The Sound Of Pouring Bourbon For The First Drink On A Sunday Morning. Not Bach Or Schubert Or Any Of Those Masters.

There Are Those Who Know And Those Who Don't Know. And For Every Ten Thousand Who Don't Know There's Only One Who Knows. That's The Miracle Of All Time--the Fact That These Millions Know So Much But Don't Know This.

The Writer By Nature Of His Profession Is A Dreamer And A Conscious Dreamer. He Must Imagine, And Imagination Takes Humility, Love And Great Courage. How Can You Create A Character Without Live And The Struggle That Goes With Love?