Just begin a story with such a phrase as 'I remember Disraeli - poor old Dizz! - once saying to me, in answer to my poke in the eye,' and you will find me and Morpheus off in a corner, necking.

Well, there are always those who cannot distinguish between glitter and glamour . . . the glamour of Isadora Duncan came from her great, torn, bewildered, foolhardy soul.

Should they whisper false of you, Never trouble to deny; Should the words they say be true, Weep and storm and say they lie.

Of course I talk to myself. I like a good speaker, and I appreciate an intelligent audience.

Where unwilling dies the rose; buds the new another year.

[Requesting her epitaph to read this way:] Excuse my dust.

Her big heart did not, as is so sadly often the case, inhabit a big bosom.