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Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.
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In one book, CACHALOT, just for my own amusement, every character is based directly on someone I have known.
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If you allowed yourself to hear or feel amusement, you would hear and feel pain.
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The one object of fifty years of abstract art is to present art-as-art and as nothing else, to make it into the one thing it is only, separating and defining it more and more, making it purer and emptier, more absolute and more exclusive - non-objective, non-representational, non-figurative, non-imagist, non-expressionist, non-subjective. the only and one way to say what abstract art or art-as-art is, is to say what it is not.
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No new reader, however charitable, could open “Fifty Shades of Grey,†browse a few paragraphs, and reasonably conclude that the author was writing in her first language, or even her fourth.
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When you get past fifty, you have to decide whether to keep your face or your figure. I kept my face.
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There is no truth which cannot be given in fifty words; the truth is always concise.
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The repetition of a catchword can hold analysis in fetters for fifty years or more.
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I feel like I'm the only person - or woman, at least - who hasn't read 'Fifty Shades of Grey.
