A Lover Would Find Life Less Broken

Sisters Are Always Drying Their Hair. Locked Into Rooms, Alone, They Pose At The Mirror, Shoulders Bare, Trying This Way And That Their Hair, Or Fly Importunate Down The Stair To Answer The Telephone.

Frigidity Is Largely Nonsense. It Is This Generation's Catchword, One Only Vaguely Understood And Constantly Misused. Frigid Women Are Few. There Is A Host Of Diffident And Slow-ripening Ones.

Let Others, Worn With Living / And Living's Aftermath, / Take Sleep To Heal The Heart's Distress, / Take Love To Be Their Comfortress, / Take Song Or Food Or Fancy Dress, / But I Shall Take A Bath.

I'm A Middle-bracket Person With A Middle-bracket Spouse / And We Live Together Gaily In A Middle-bracket House. / We've A Fair-to-middlin' Family; We Take The Middle View; / So We're Manna Sent From Heaven To Internal Revenue.

The Saints Differ From Us In Their Exuberance, The Excess Of Our Human Talents. Moderation Is Not Their Secret. It Is In The Wildness Of Their Dreams, The Desperate Vitality Of Their Ambitions, That They Stand Apart From Ordinary People Of Good Will.