Judges Don't Age. Time Decorates Them.

In Marriage There Are No Manners To Keep Up, And Beneath The Wildest Accusations No Real Criticism. Each Is Familiar With That Ancient Child In The Other Who May Erupt Again. We Are Not Ridiculous To Ourselves. We Are Ageless. That Is The Luxury Of The Wedding Ring.

One Never Knows When One Is Old For Certain.

It's Not Till Sex Has Died Out Between A Man And A Woman That They Can Really Love. And Now I Mean Affection. Now I Mean To Be Fond Of (as One Is Fond Of Oneself) -to Hope, To Be Disappointed, To Live Inside The Other Heart. When I Look Back On The Pain Of Sex, The Love Like A Wild Fox So Ready To Bite, The Antagonism That Sits Like A Twin Beside Love, And Contrast It With Affection, So Deeply Unrepeatable, Of Two People Who Have Lived A Life Together (and Of Whom One Must Die) It's The Affection I Find Richer. It's That I Would Have Again. Not All Those Doubtful Rainbow Colors.

The Press Blew, The Public Stared, Hands Flew Out Like A Million Little Fishes After Bread.

Dead News Like Dead Love Has No Phoenix In Its Ashes.