For Neither Life Nor Nature Cares If

I Can't Write If Someone Else Is In The House, Not Even The Cleaning Woman.

It Always Gets Late With You. - Is That A Compliment?

But There Was Not A Moment When She Did Not See Carol In Her Mind, And All She Saw, She Seemed To See Through Carol. That Evening, The Dark Flat Streets Of New York, The Tomorrow Of Work, The Milk Bottle Dropped And Broken In Her Sink, Became Unimportant. She Flung Herself On Her Bed And Drew A Line With A Pencil On A Piece Of Paper. And Another Line, Carefully, And Another. A World Was Born Around Her, Like A Bright Forest With A Million Shimmering Leaves.

I Was In New York. Hitchcock Was In California. He Rang Me To Make A Report On His Progress And Said, I'm Having Trouble. I've Just Sacked My Second Screenwriter

They Were Not Friends. They Didn't Know Each Other. It Struck Tom Like A Horrible Truth, True For All Time, True For The People He Had Known In The Past And For Those He Would Know In The Future: Each Had Stood And Would Stand Before Him, And He Would Know Time And Time Again That He Would Never Know Them, And The Worst Was That There Would Always Be The Illusion, For A Time, That He Did Know Them, And That He And They Were Completely In Harmony And Alike. For An Instant The Wordless Shock Of His Realization Seemed More Than He Could Bear.