My Lord, My Lord! What Hath Thou

That’s One Of The Nice Things About Writing, Or Any Art; If The Thing’s Real, It Just Lives. All The Attendant Hoopla About It, The Success Over It Or The Critical Rejection—none Of That Really Matters. In The End, The Thing Will Survive Or Not On Its Own Merits. Not That Immortality Via Art Is Any Big Deal. Truffaut Died, And We All Felt Awful About It, And There Were The Appropriate Eulogies, And His Wonderful Films Live On. But It’s Not Much Help To Truffaut.

Drama, It Would Be As If You Wrote Some Poetry. You'd Run The Risk Of Being Embarrassed If People Read It, Because You're Pouring Your Heart Out And You're Not Mitigating It With Any Humor Or Anything.

I Think Being Funny Is Not Anyone's First Choice.

I Just Can't Listen To Any More Wagner, You Know...i'm Starting To Get The Urge To Conquer Poland.

Is Old Age Really So Terrible? Not If You've Brushed Your Teeth Faithfully.