Maybe The Private Life Wasn't Forever. Maybe

That's The Way I Work. I Get It All Plotted In My Mind, And Then I Write It Down.

The Hardest Piece Of Nonfiction I Ever Wrote Isn't Anywhere Close To The Easiest Piece Of Fiction I Never Wrote.

Society Was Nothing But A Long, Dull Dinner Party Conversation In Which One Was Forced To Speak To One's Partner On Both The Left And The Right.

He Believed That Life, True Life, Was Something That Was Stored In Music. True Life Was Kept Safe In The Lines Of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin While You Went Out In The World And Met The Obligations Required Of You. Certainly He Knew (though Did Not Completely Understand) That Opera Wasn't For Everyone, But For Everyone He Hoped There Was Something. The Records He Cherished, The Rare Opportunities To See A Live Performance, Those Were The Marks By Which He Gauged His Ability To Love.

There Are, Of Course, People Who Didn't Create The Trouble They're In, But Lots Of Them Do.