Why Haven't We Seventy Lives? One Is

I Am Fierce For Work. Without Work I Am Nothing.

But To Write - That Is Grief And Labor; And To Read What One Has Written - How Unlike The Story As One Saw It; How Dull, How Spirtless - That Is Enough To Send One Weeping To Bed.

If We Haven't A Grouch Against Fortune, We Seem Unable To Avoid One Against Ourselves.

We Each Live In A Private, Distorted, Individual World - Stars Turning In Space, Warmed For A Moment By Each Other's Light, Then Lost In Infinite Distance.

Remorse ... Is One Of The Many Afflictions For Which Time Finds A Cure.