Perhaps The Only Misplaced Curiosity Is That

One Keeps Forgetting Old Age Up To The Very Brink Of The Grave.

The Day After That Wedding Night I Found That A Distance Of A Thousand Miles, Abyss And Discovery And Irremediable Metamorphosis, Separated Me From The Day Before.

As For An Authentic Villain, The Real Thing, The Absolute, The Artist, One Rarely Meets Him Even Once In A Lifetime. The Ordinary Bad Hat Is Always In Part A Decent Fellow.

Don't Cudgel Your Brains Over My Little Problems.

At Sixty-three Years Of Age, Less A Quarter, One Still Has Plans.