I'm A Complete Democrat In Terms Of

The Writer Must Be Universal In Sympathy And An Outcast By Nature: Only Then Can He See Clearly.

What Happiness Is There In Just The Memory Of Happiness?

And Perhaps It Was Also The Case That, For All A Lifetime's Internal Struggling, You Were Finally No More Than What Others Saw You As. That Was Your Nature, Whether You Liked It Or Not.

And No, It Wasn't Shame I Now Felt, Or Guilt, But Something Rarer In My Life And Stronger Than Both: Remorse. A Feeling Which Is More Complicated, Curdled, And Primeval. Whose Chief Characteristic Is That Nothing Can Be Done About It: Too Much Time Has Passed, Too Much Damage Has Been Done, For Amends To Be Made.

We Live, We Die, We Are Remembered, We Are Forgotten.