Sleeping In A Bed -- It Is,

It Wasn't Really Touching To Be Young; It Was Touching Not To Be Young, Because You Had Less Of Life Left. Touching To Be Thirty; More Touching To Be Forty; Tragic To Be Fifty; And Heartbreaking To Be Sixty. As To Seventy, As To Eighty, One Would Feel As One Did During The Last Dance Of A Ball, Tired But Fey In The Paling Dawn, Desperately Making The Most Of Each Bar Of Music Before One Went Home To Bed.

If Words Are To Change Their Meanings, As Assuredly They Are, Let Each User Of Language Make Such Changes As Please Himself, Put Up His Own Suggestions, And Let The Best Win.

Giving Is Not At All Interesting; But Receiving Is, There Is No Doubt About It, Delightful.

Life Is One Long Struggle To Disinter Oneself, To Keep One's Head Above The Accumulations, The Ever Deepening Layers Of Objects ... Which Attempt To Cover One Over, Steadily, Almost Irresistibly, Like Falling Snow.

Words, Living And Ghostly, The Quick And The Dead, Crowd And Jostle The Otherwise Too Empty Corridors Of My Mind ... To Move Among This Bright, Strange, Often Fabulous Herd Of Beings, To Summon Them At My Will, To Fasten Them On To Paper Like Flies, That They May Decorate It, This Is The Pleasure Of Writing.