The Faults Of Husbands Are Often Caused

To A Poet, Silence Is An Acceptable Response, Even A Flattering One.

There Are Days When Solitude, For Someone My Age, Is A Heady Wine That Intoxicates You With Freedom, Others When It Is A Bitter Tonic, And Still Others When It Is A Poison That Makes You Beat Your Head Against The Wall.

That Lovely Voice; How I Should Weep For Joy If I Could Hear It Now!

At The Top Of The Iron Staircase Leading To The Stage, The Good, Dry, Dusty Warmth Wraps Me Round Like A Comfortable Dirty Cloak.

I Am Indebted To The Cat For A Particular Kind Of Honorable Deceit, For A Greater Control Over Myself, For A Characteristic Aversion To Brutal Sounds, And For The Need To Keep Silent For Long Periods Of Time.