Probably No Adult Misery Can Be Compared

Art And Morality Are, With Certain Provisos…one. Their Essence Is The Same. The Essence Of Both Of Them Is Love. Love Is The Perception Of Individuals. Love Is The Extremely Difficult Realization That Something Other Than Oneself Is Real. Love, And So Art And Morals, Is The Discovery Of Reality.

No Love Is Entirely Without Worth, Even When The Frivolous Calls To The Frivolous And The Base To The Base.

So We Live; A Spirit That Broods And Hovers Over The Continual Death Of Time, The Lost Meaning, The Unrecaptured Moment, The Unremembered Face, Until The Final Chop That Ends All Our Moments And Plunges That Spirit Back Into The Void From Which It Came.

I Hate Solitude But I Am Afraid Of Intimacy. The Substance Of My Life Is A Private Conversation With Myself And To Turn It Into A Dialogue Would Be Equivalent To Self-destruction. The Company I Need Is The Company Which A Pub Or A Cafe Will Provide. I Have Never Wanted A Communion Of Souls.

Of Course Men Play Roles, But Women Play Roles Too, Blanker Ones. They Have, In The Play Of Life, Fewer Good Lines.