I Must Say, I Hate Money. But

What Can You Do If You Are Thirty And, Turning The Corner Of Your Own Street, You Are Overcome, Suddenly, By A Feeling Of Bliss - Absolute Bliss - As Though You'd Suddenly Swallowed A Bright Piece Of That Late Afternoon Sun And It Burned In Your Bosom, Sending Out A Little Shower Of Sparks Into Every Particle Into Every Finger And Toe?

Letters Are The Real Curse Of My Existence. I Hate To Write Them: I Have To. If I Don't, There They Are - The Great Guilty Gates Barring My Way.

The Mind I Love Must Have Wild Places.

But One Day We Shall Be Rich, And The Next Poor. One Day We Shall Dine In A Palace And The Next We'll Sit In A Forest And Toast Mushrooms On A Hatpin.

If You Wish To Live, You Must First Attend Your Own Funeral.