Christmas Is At Our Throats Again.

Of Course, The Age-old Tradition That A Star Must Appear Even If He Or She Is Practically Dying Is An Excellent One, But It Can Be Carried Too Far. I One Played A Performance Of The Knight Of The Burning Pestle With A Temperature Of 103 And Gave Sixteen Members Of The Company Mumps, Thereby Closing The Play And Throwing Everybody Out Of Work. There May Be A Moral Lurking Somewhere In This, But I Cannot For The Life Of Me Discover What It Is.

Wouldn't It Be Dreadful To Live In A Country Where They Didn't Have Tea?

My Importance To The World Is Relatively Small. On The Other Hand, My Importance To Myself Is Tremendous. I Am All I Have To Work With, To Play With, To Suffer And To Enjoy. It Is Not The Eyes Of Others That I Am Wary Of, But Of My Own. I Do Not Intend To Let Myself Down More Than I Can Possibly Help, And I Find That The Fewer Illusions I Have About Myself Or The World Around Me, The Better Company I Am For Myself.

That Strange Feeling We Had In The War. Have You Found Anything In Your Lives Since To Equal It In Strength? A Sort Of Splendid Carelessness It Was, Holding Us Together.

Madame Bovary Is The Sexiest Book Imaginable. The Woman's Virtually A Nyphomaniac But You Won't Find A Vulgar Word In The Entire Thing.