All America Is Much The Same.

When I Was Young, We Thought That Oscar Wilde Was A Great Nobleman Who Had Thrown His Life Away For Love. Nothing Could Be Less True. He Slept With East Enders Who Were Procured For Him By Lord Alfred Douglas. He Knew Them Only 'in Braille' - The Curtains Were Never Drawn Back In The Rooms In Oxford Where He Met Those Boys. It Was The Most Sordid Life You Can Imagine. And He Was Bleating About Love And Dragging The Fair Name Of Mr. Plato Into The Trial - After A Life Like That?

Love Is Not Enough. It Must Be The Foundation, The Cornerstone - But Not The Complete Structure. It Is Much Too Pliable, Too Yielding.

Manners Are Love In A Cool Climate.

People Are Not Heterosexual Or Homosexual, Just Sexual.

If I Have Any Talent At All, It Is Not For Doing But For Being.