I Believed I Was A Salamander, And

The Flapper Awoke From Her Lethargy Of Sub-deb-ism, Bobbed Her Hair, Put On Her Choicest Pair Of Earrings And A Great Deal Of Audacity And Rouge And Went Into The Battle. She Flirted Because It Was Fun To Flirt And Wore A One-piece Bathing Suit Because She Had A Good Figure She Was Conscious That The Things She Did Were The Things She Had Always Wanted To Do. Mothers Disapproved Of Their Sons Taking The Flapper To Dances, To Teas, To Swim And Most Of All To Heart.

Millie Beggs, By The Time She Was Forty-five, Had Become An Emotional Anarchist.

It Seemed To Alabama That, Reaching Her Goal, She Would Drive The Devils That Had Driven Her - That, In Proving Herself, She Would Achieve That Peace Which She Imagined Went Only In Surety Of One’s Self - That She Would Be Able, Through The Medium Of The Dance, To Command Her Emotions, To Summon Love Or Pity Or Happiness At Will, Having Provided A Channel Through Which They Might Flow. She Drove Herself Mercilessly, And The Summer Dragged On.

It Seems To Me That On One Page I Recognized A Portion Of An Old Diary Of Mine Which Mysteriously Disappeared Shortly After My Marriage, And, Also, Scraps Of Letters Which, Though Considerably Edited, Sound To Me Vaguely Familiar. In Fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (i Believe That Is How He Spells His Name) Seems To Believe That Plagiarism Begins At Home.

And Only Weaklings...who Lack Courage And The Power To Feel They're Right When The Whole World Says They're Wrong, Ever Lose.