Writing Does Not Exclude The Full Life;

I Am In Paris. Yes Ma'am , I Made It Back. I Came Up From Berlin, Stopped Here Ten Days, Fought A Losing Battle Against My Deepest Inclinations, Pulled Myself Out By The Hair And Went To Madrid...madrid Is A Lovely Enchanting City, And There Was Almost Ready For Me A Kind Of Penthouse Full Of Sunlight, A Roof Garden, And So On. I Gave One Look At It All, Returned To The Hotel And Went To Bed And Wept Bitterly For Eleven Hours...why? Because I Had Seen Paris And Could Not Endure The Thought Of Being Anywhere Else.

Evil Is Dull, That Is The Worst Of It.

Love Is Purely A Creation Of The Human Imagination, It Is Merely Perhaps The Most Important Of All The Examples Of How The Imagination Continually Outruns The Creature It Inhabits.

They Had Both Noticed That A Life Of Dissipation Sometimes Gave To A Face The Look Of Gaunt Suffering Spirituality That A Life Of Asceticism Was Supposed To Give And Quite Often Did Not.

All The Old Houses That I Knew When I Was A Child Were Full Of Books, Bought Generation After Generation By Members Of The Family. Nobody Told You To Read This Or Not To Read That.