In England, Life Is A Long Process

One Would Always Want To Think Of Oneself As Being On The Side Of Love, Ready To Recognize It And Wish It Well -but, When Confronted With It In Others, One So Often Resented It, Questioned Its True Nature, Secretly Dismissed The Particular Instance As Folly Or Promiscuity. Was It Merely Jealousy, Or A Reluctance To Admit So Noble And Enviable A Sentiment In Anyone But Oneself?

When You Realize Someone Is Trying To Hurt You, It Hurts Less." "unless You Love Them.

Italians Are Never Punctual; The Café, The Convenient Place To Wait, Absolves Them From That. There Is No Question Of Hanging About, No Looking Lost And Unwanted Or Even Disreputable, As There Is In Hotel Lobbies Or The Foyers Of Restaurants. One Just Sits And Enjoys The Scene, And Waits.

That Was The Trouble With Experience; It Taught You That Most People Were Capable Of Anything, So That Loyalty Was Never Quite On Firm Ground -- Or, Rather, Became A Matter Of Pardoning Offenses Instead Of Denying Their Existence.

Great Literature Is Like Moral Leadership; Everyone Deplores The Lack Of It, But There Is A Tendency To Prefer It From The Safely Dead.