I Read A Lot Of F. Scott

It's The Face Itself That I Love, Not That Face At Twenty-eight Or Thirty-four Or Forty-three. It's That Face.

She Shouldn't Speak Her Thoughts; Nothing Good Ever Came Of Speaking Your Thoughts.

She Made You Decent, And In Return You Made Her So Happy

As A Novelist, I'm Incredibly Lucky To Make A Living, But That Doesn't Mean That I Don't Lie Awake At Four O'clock In The Morning, Worrying.

It Would Be Inappropiate, Undignified, At 38, To Conduct Friendships Or Love Affairs With The Ardour Or Intensity Of A 22 Year Old. Falling In Love Like That? Writing Poetry? Crying At Pop Songs? Dragging People Into Photobooths? Taking A Whole Day To Make A Compilation Tape? Asking People If They Wanted To Share Your Bed, Just For Company? If You Quoted Bob Dylan Or Ts Eliot Or, God Forbid, Brecht At Someone These Days They Would Smile Politely And Step Quietly Backwards, And Who Would Blame Them? Ridiculous, At 38, To Expect A Song Or Book Or Film To Change Your Life.