Happiness Puts On As Many Shapes As

Kindness Is A Virtue Neither Modern Nor Urban. One Almost Unlearns It In A City. Towns Have Their Own Beatitude; They Are Not Unfriendly; They Offer A Vast And Solacing Anonymity Or An Equally Vast And Solacing Gregariousness. But One Needs A Neighbor On Whom To Practice Compassion.

Ah! Some Love Paris, / And Some Purdue. / But Love Is An Archer With A Low I.q. / A Bold, Bad Bowman, And Innocent Of Pity. / So I'm In Love With / New York City.

Oh, Princes Thrive On Caviar, The Poor On Whey And Curds, / And Politicians, I Infer, Must Eat Their Windy Words. / It's Crusts That Feed The Virtuous, It's Cake That Comforts Sinners, / But Writers Live On Bread And Praise At Literary Dinners.

Women Are The Fulfilled Sex. Through Our Children We Are Able To Produce Our Own Immortality, So We Lack That Divine Restlessness Which Sends Men Charging Off In Pursuit Of Fortune Or Fame Or An Imagined Utopia. That Is Why We Number So Few Geniuses Among Us. The Wholesome Oyster Wears No Pearl, The Healthy Whale No Ambergris, And As Long As We Can Keep On Adding To The Race, We Harbor A Sort Of Health Within Ourselves.

A Bit Of Trash Now And Then Is Good For The Severest Reader. It Provides The Necessary Roughage In The Literary Diet.