I take a sun bath and listen to the hours, formulating, and disintegrating under the pines, and smell the resiny hardihood of the high noon hours. The world is lost in a blue haze of distances, and the immediate sleeps in a thin and finite sun.

We walked at night towards a cafe blooming with Japanese lanterns and I followed your white shoes gleaming like radium in the damp darkness. Rising off the water, lights flickered an invitation far enough away to be interpreted as we liked; to shimmer glamourously behind the silhouette of retrospective good times when we still believed in summer hotels and the philosophies of popular songs.

There's nothing on earth to do here but look at the view and eat. You can imagine the result since I do not like to look at views.

And only weaklings...who lack courage and the power to feel they're right when the whole world says they're wrong, ever lose.

It seems to me that on one page I recognized a portion of an old diary of mine which mysteriously disappeared shortly after my marriage, and, also, scraps of letters which, though considerably edited, sound to me vaguely familiar. In fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (I believe that is how he spells his name) seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.

The purpose of life on earth is that the soul should grow - So Growl By doing what is right.

By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future.