I Like France, Where Everybody Thinks He's

His Was A Great Sin Who First Invented Consciousness. Let Us Lose It For A Few Hours.

There’s A Writer For You,” He Said. “knows Everything And At The Same Time He Knows Nothing.” [narrator]it Was My First Inkling That He Was A Writer. And While I Like Writers—because If You Ask A Writer Anything You Usually Get An Answer—still It Belittled Him In My Eyes. Writers Aren’t People Exactly. Or, If They’re Any Good, They’re A Whole Lot Of People Trying So Hard To Be One Person. It’s Like Actors, Who Try So Pathetically Not To Look In Mirrors. Who Lean Backward Trying—only To See Their Faces In The Reflecting Chandeliers.

Never Confuse A Single Defeat With A Final Defeat.

They Slipped Briskly Into An Intimacy From Which They Never Recovered.

They Were Stars On This Stage, Each Playing To An Audience Of Two.