Let's Die Of It Before We're Too

Wives?" She Asked, Interrupting Him. For A Moment, He Had Assumed She Was Tuning To The Novel. Then He Saw Her Waiting, Suspicious Eyes, So He Replied Cautiously, "none Active," As If Wives Were Volcanoes.

Out Of Date, Perhaps, But Who Wasn't These Days? Out Of Date, But Loyal To His Own Time. At A Certain Moment, After All, Every Man Chooses: Will He Go Forward, Will He Go Back? There Was Nothing Dishounorable In Not Being Blown About By Every Little Modern Wind. Better To Have Worth, To Entrench, To Be An Oak Of One's Own Generation.

God Is In His Heaven And The First Night Was A Wow.

It's Part Of A Writer's Profession, As It's Part Of A Spy's Profession, To Prey On The Community To Which He's Attached, To Take Away Information - Often In Secret - And To Translate That Into Intelligence For His Masters, Whether It's His Readership Or His Spy Masters. And I Think That Both Professions Are Perhaps Rather Lonely.

Having Your Book Turned Into A Movie Is Like Seeing Your Oxen Turned Into Bouillon Cubes.