Life And Death Do Not Wait For

A Familiar Name On Its Own, However, Does Not Carry Its Bearer Far Unless The Talent Is There, And The Will To Work.

The Trouble Is, Walking In Venice Becomes Compulsive Once You Start. Just Over The Next Bridge, You Say, And Then The Next One Beckons.

Here Was A Silence Between Them For A Moment, And She Wondered If All Women, When In Love, Were Torn Between Two Impulses, A Longing To Throw Modesty And Reserve To The Winds And Confess Everything, And An Equal Determination To Conceal The Love Forever, To Be Cool, Aloof, Utterly Detached, To Die Rather Than Admit A Thing So Personal, So Intimate.

There Is No Going Back In Life. There Is No Return. No Second Chance.

She Had To Live In This Bright, Red Gabled House With The Nurse Until It Was Time For Her To Die... I Thought How Little We Know About The Feelings Of Old People. Children We Understand, Their Fears And Hopes And Make-believe.