I've Had A Hell Of A Lot

I Felt Like An Impostor, Taking All That Money For Reciting Ten Or Twelve Lines Of Nonsense A Day.

You Once Liked The Blissful Mobility, But Then You Wonder, Who's The Real You? And Who's The Chap On The Screen? You Know, I Catch Myself Acting Out My Life Like A Goddamn Script.

I Enter A Whorehouse With The Same Interest As I Do The British Museum Or The Metropolitan - In The Same Spirit Of Curiosity. Here Are The Works Of Man, Here Is An Art Of Man, Here Is The Eternal Pursuit Of Gold And Pleasure. I Couldn't Be More Sincere. This Doesn't Mean That If I Go To La Scala In Milan To Hear Carmen I Want To Get Up On The Stage And Participate. I Do Not. Neither Do I Always Participate In A Fine Representative National Whorehouse - But I Must See It As A Spectacle, An Offering, A Symptom Of A Nation.

My Dream Of Happiness: A Quiet Spot By The Jamaican Seashore . . . Hearing The Wind Sob With The Beauty And The Tragedy Of Everything. Sitting Under An Almond Tree, With The Leaf Spread Over Me Like An Umbrella.

The Public Has Always Expected Me To Be A Playboy, And A Decent Chap Never Lets His Public Down.