If Childhood Is Still A State, It

The Knowingness Of Little Girls, Is Hidden Underneath Their Curls.

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.

How Happy Is The Optimist / To Whom Life Shows Its Sunny Side / His Horse May Lose, His Ship May List, / But He Always Sees The Funny Side.

Sisters Are Always Drying Their Hair. Locked Into Rooms, Alone, They Pose At The Mirror, Shoulders Bare, Trying This Way And That Their Hair, Or Fly Importunate Down The Stair To Answer The Telephone.

The East Is A Montage. It Is Old And It Is Young, Very Green In Summer, Very White In Winter, Gregarious, Withdrawn And At Once Both Sophisticated And Provincial.