All Of A Writer That Matters Is

Love Was A Terrible Thing. You Poisoned It And Stabbed At It And Knocked It Down Into The Mud - Well Down - And It Got Up And Staggered On, Bleeding And Muddy And Awful. Like - Like Rasputin.

But Why Do You Want To Talk To Me?' He Is Going To Say: 'because You Look So Kind,' Or 'because You Look So Beautiful And Kind,' Or, Subtly, 'because You Look As If You'll Understand....' He Says: 'because I Think You Won't Betray Me.' I Had Meant To Get This Mean To Talk To Me And Tell Me All About It, And Then Be So Devastatingly English That Perhaps I Should Manage To Hurt Him A Little In Return For All The Many Times I've Been Hurt.... 'because I Think You Won't Betray Me, Because I Think You Won't Betray Me....' Now It Won't Be So Easy.

I'm No Use To Anybody,' I Say. 'i'm A Cérébrale, Can't You See That?' Thinking How Funny A Book Would Be, Called 'just A Cérébrale Or You Can't Stop Me From Dreaming'. Only, Of Course, To Be Accepted As Authentic, To Carry Any Conviction, It Would Have To Be Written By A Man. What A Pity, What A Pity!

Now At Last I Know Why I Was Brought Here And What I Have To Do.

The Last Time You Were Happy About Nothing; The First Time You Were Afraid About Nothing. Which Came First?