I Don't Know What That Method Is.

A Lucky Thing Eva Peron Was. She Died At 32. I'm Already 45.

My Husband, Who's The Greatest Actor In The World, Can Do Anything. Look At What He Did In The Critic And Oedipus. In Every Role He Gets-he Did This In Richard The Third-there's Nothing He Can't Do, Nothing. Just Nothing.

Some Critics Saw Fit To Say That I Was A Great Actress. I Thought That Was A Foolish, Wicket Thing To Say Because It Put Such An Onus And Such A Responsibility Onto Me, Which I Simply Wasn't Able To Carry.

Fiddle-dee-dee. War, War, War. This War Talk's Spoiling All The Fun At Every Party This Spring. I Get So Bored I Could Scream. Besides, There Isn't Going To Be Any War. . . . If Either Of You Boys Says 'war' Just Once Again, I'll Go In The House And Slam The Door.

Having Lost Rhett, She Can Always Return To The Land - To Tara, To Soak Up Its Strength. . . . Tara! . . . Home. I'll Go Home, And I'll Think Of Some Way To Get Him Back! After All, Tomorrow Is Another Day!