I Suppose It Is A Gift, Being

There Are Only Two Kinds Of People In The World That Really Count. One Kind's Wheat And The Other Kind's Emeralds.

In New York The Sky Is Bluer, And The Grass Is Greener, And The Girls Are Prettier, And The Steaks Are Thicker, And The Buildings Are Higher, And The Streets Are Wider, And The Air Is Finer, Than The Sky, Or The Grass, Or The Girls, Or The Steaks, Or The Air Of Any Place Else In The World.

Writing, To Be Memorable, Must Be Done In A State Of Impassioned Serenity.

It Sounds So Far Away And Different. I Like Different Places. I Like Any Places That Isn't Here.

Christmas Isn't A Season. It's A Feeling.