Why does life feel, to us as we experience it, so desperately urgent and so utterly pointless at the same time?

I'm always looking for insights into the real Doris Day because I'm stuck with this infatuation and need to explain it to myself.

There is this quality, in things, of the right way seeming wrong at first.

Being a divorcee in a small town is a little like playing Monopoly; eventually you land on all the properties.

Movies are, like sharp sunlight, merciless; we do not imagine, we view.

The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown.

Four years was enough of Harvard. I still had a lot to learn, but had been given the liberating notion that now I could teach myself.