All Autobiography Is Self-indulgent.

All Autobiography Is Self-indulgent.

If Only There Could Be An Invention That Bottled Up A Memory, Like Scent. And It Never Faded, And It Never Got Stale. And Then, When One Wanted It, The Bottle Could Be Uncorked, And It Would Be Like Living The Moment All Over Again.

Happiness Is Not A Possession To Be Prized, It Is A Quality Of Thought, A State Of Mind.

I Could Fight With The Living But I Could Not Fight The Dead. If There Was Some Woman In London That Maxim Loved, Someone He Wrote To, Visited, Dined With, Slept With, I Could Fight Her. We Would Stand On Common Ground. I Should Not Be Afraid. Anger And Jealousy Were Things That Could Be Conquered. One Day The Woman Would Grow Old Or Tired Or Different, And Maxim Would Not Love Her Anymore. But Rebecca Would Never Grow Old. Rebecca Would Always Be The Same. And She And I Could Not Fight. She Was To Strong For Me.

We Know One Another. This Is The Present. There Is No Past And No Future. Here I Am Washing My Hands, And The Cracked Mirror Shows Me To Myself, Suspended As It Were, In Time; This Is Me, This Moment Will Not Pass.