We Each Live In A Private, Distorted,

Is This The Final Treachery Of Time, That The Old Become A Burden Upon The Young?

Most Gay, Conversational, Careless, Lovely City ... Where One Drinks Golden Tokay Until One Feels Most Beautiful, And Warm And Loved - Oh, Budapesth!

Nature Is Not Silent, And Never Was A Name More Derisively Inappropriate Than When We Speak Of These Non-human Creatures Who Hoot And Crow And Bray As The Dumb Animals.

When A Person That One Loves Is In The World And Alive And Well, And Pleased To Be In The World, Then To Miss Them Is Only A New Flavor, A Salt Sharpness In Experience. It Is When The Beloved Is Unhappy Or Maimed Or Troubled That One Misses With Pain.

I Can't Think Why I Was Cursed With This Inordinate Desire To Write, If The High Gods Weren't Going To Give Me Some More Adquate Means Of Expressing Myself Than That Which My Present Pedestrian Prose Affords.