Love's A Disease. But Curable.

To Lunch With The Important ... That Should Be The Daily Goal Of Those For Whom Life Is Not A Playground But A Ladder.

How Agreeable To Watch, From The Other Side Of The High Stile, This Mighty Creature, This Fat Bull Of Bashan, Snorting, Champing, Pawing The Earth, Lashing The Tail, Breathing Defiance At Heaven And At Me ... His Heart Hot With Hate, Unable To Climb A Stile.

Atheism Was Natural Enough, But Heresy Seemed Strange. For, Surely, If One Could Believe Anything, One Could Believe Everything.

All Sorts Of Articles And Letters Appear In The Papers About Women. Profound Questions Are Raised Concerning Them. Should They Smoke? Should They Work? Vote? Marry? Exist? Are Not Their Skirts Too Short, Or Their Sleeves? Have They A Sense Of Humor, Of Honor, Of Direction? Are Spinsters Superfluous? But How Seldom Similar Inquiries Are Propounded About Men.

Words, Living And Ghostly, The Quick And The Dead, Crowd And Jostle The Otherwise Too Empty Corridors Of My Mind ... To Move Among This Bright, Strange, Often Fabulous Herd Of Beings, To Summon Them At My Will, To Fasten Them On To Paper Like Flies, That They May Decorate It, This Is The Pleasure Of Writing.