Moonlight, White Satin, Roses. A Bride.

For Most Of Human History, 'literature,' Both Fiction And Poetry, Has Been Narrated, Not Written — Heard, Not Read. So Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Stories From The Oral Tradition, Are All Of Them The Most Vital Connection We Have With The Imaginations Of The Ordinary Men And Women Whose Labor Created Our World.

For All Cats Have This Particularity, Each And Every One, From The Meanest Alley Sneaker To The Proudest, Whitest She That Ever Graced A Pontiff's Pillow — We Have Our Smiles, As It Were, Painted On. Those Small, Cool, Quite Mona Lisa Smiles That Smile We Must, No Matter Whether It's Been Fun Or It's Been Not. So All Cats Have A Politician's Air; We Smile And Smile And So They Think We're Villains

I Drew The Curtains To Conceal The Sight Of My Father's Farewell; My Spite Was Sharp As Broken Glass.

Just Because We're Sisters Under The Skin Doesn't Mean We've Got Much In Common.

How Far Does A Pretence Of Feeling, Maintained With Absolute Conviction, Become Authentic?