Inactivity And Deprivation Of All Accustomed Stimulus

May I Make A Suggestion, Hoping It Is Not An Impertinence? Write It Down: Write Down What You Feel. It Is Sometimes A Wonderful Help In Misery.

The Women We Really Love Are The Women Who Complete Us, Who Have The Qualities We Can Borrow And So Become Something Nearer To Whole Men. Just As We Complete Them, Of Course; It’s Not A One-way Thing. Leola And I, When Romance Was Stripped Away, Were Too Much Alike; Our Strengths And Weaknesses Were Too Nearly The Same. Together We Would Have Doubled Our Gains And Our Losses, But That Isn’t What Love Is.

Many Authors Write Like Amateur Blacksmiths Making Their First Horseshoe; The Clank Of The Anvil, The Stench Of The Scorched Leather Apron, The Sparks And The Cursing Are Palpable, And This Appeals To Those Who Rank "sincerity" Very High. Nabokov Is More Like A Master Swordsmith Making A Fine Blade; Nothing Is Amiss, Nothing Is Too Much, There Is No Fuss, And The Finished Product Must Be Handled With Great Care, Or It Will Cut You Badly.

"there Is No Disputing About Tastes," Says The Old Saw. In My Experience There Is Little Else.

We Live In A World Where Bulk Is Equated With Quality.