I Don't Really Act. I Say The

Style, In The Broadest Sense Of All, Is Consciousness. More Specifically It Is A Consistent Idiom Arising Spontaneously From The Personality But Deliberately Maintained.

Our Clothes Are Too Much A Part Of Us For Most Of Us Ever To Be Entirely Indifferent To Their Condition: It Is As Though The Fabric Were Indeed A Natural Extension Of The Body, Or Even Of The Soul.

While I Have Very Little To Say In Favor Of Sex (it's Vastly Overrated, It's Frequently Unnecessary, And It's Messy), It Is Greatly To Be Preferred To The Interminable Torments Of Romantic Agony Through Which Two People Tear One Another Limb From Limb While Professing Altruistic Devotion.

Another Friend Began To Say, "well, Quentin Has A Problem Of Adjusting Himself To Society And He..." This Sentence Was Never Finished. The Ballet Teacher Expostulated, "i Don't Agree. Quentin Does Exactly As He Pleases. The Rest Of Us Have To Adapt Ourselves To Him."

If Love Means Anything At All It Means Extending Your Hand To The Unlovable.