..she Had That Brand Of Pragmatism That

I Never Want To Be The Producer That I Too Often Got.

Often People Who Are Wonderful With Animals Aren't Always Terribly Good With Human Beings.

A Soul Of Water A Soul Of Stone. A Soul By Name A Soul Unknown. The Hours Unmake Our Flesh Our Bone. The Soul Is All And All Alone!

There Is No Such Thing As Originality. It Has All Been Said Before, Suffered Before. If A Person Knows That, Is It Any Wonder Love Becomes Mechanical And Death Just A Scene To Be Shunned? There Is No Absolute Knowledge To Be Gained From Either. Just Another Ride On The Merry-go-round, Another Blurred Scene Of Faces Smiling And Faces Grieved.

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.