Who Invented The Human Heart, I Wonder?

A Diary Is The Last Place To Go If You Wish To Seek The Truth About A Person. Nobody Dares To Make The Final Confession To Themselves On Paper: Or At Least, Not About Love.

The Whole Mediterranean, The Sculpture, The Palm, The Gold Beads, The Bearded Heroes, The Wine, The Ideas, The Ships, The Moonlight, The Winged Gorgons, The Bronze Men, The Philosophers - All Of It Seems To Rise In The Sour, Pungent Taste Of These Black Olives Between The Teeth. A Taste Older Than Meat, Older Than Wine. A Taste As Old As Cold Water.

The National Characteristics... The Restless Metaphysical Curiosity, The Tenderness Of Good Living And The Passionate Individualism. This Is The Invisible Constant In A Place With Which The Ordinary Tourist Can Get In Touch Just By Sitting Quite Quietly Over A Glass Of Wine In A Paris Bistro.

Of Women, The Most We Can Say, Not Being Frenchmen, Is That They Are Burrowing Animals.

They Flower Spontaneously Out Of The Demands Of Our Natures - And The Best Of Them Lead Us Not Only Outward In Space, But Inward As Well.