In The Taxi I Let My Hand

Pity Is Cruel. Pity Destroys.

A Writer Doesn't Write For His Readers, Does He? Yet He Has To Take Elementary Precautions All The Same, To Make Them Comfortable.

Happiness Is Never Really So Welcome As Changelessness.

Yesterday I Went Home With Him And We Did The Usual Things. I Haven't The Nerve To Put Them Down, But I'd Like To, Because Now When I'm Writing It's Already Tomorrow And I'm Afraid Of Getting To The End Of Yesterday. As Long As I Go On Writing, Yesterday Is Today And We Are Still Together

It's A Strange Thing To Discover And To Believe That You Are Loved When You Know That There Is Nothing In You For Anybody But A Parent Or A God To Love.