The Object Of Art Is To Give

There Is Love Of Course. And Then There's Life, Its Enemy.

In Your Efforts To Dazzle Us Your Reasoning Has Gone Awry. You Know Very Well That Love Is, Above All, The Gift Of Oneself.

It Is Restful, Tragedy, Because One Knows That There Is No More Lousy Hope Left. You Know You're Caught, Caught At Last Like A Rat With All The World On Its Back. And The Only Thing Left To Do Is Shout - Not Moan, Or Complain, But Yell Out At The Top Of Your Voice Whatever It Was You Had To Say. What You've Never Said Before. What Perhaps You Don't Even Know Till Now.

Oh, Love Is Real Enough; You Will Find It Someday, But It Has One Archenemy - And That Is Life.

Until The Day Of His Death No Man Can Be Sure Of His Courage.