It’s Just Life. You Can’t Beat Life.

I Read A Book Called The Art Of Loving. A Lot Of Things Seemed Clear While I Was Reading It But Afterwards I Went Back To Being More Or Less The Same.

We Say Of Some Things That They Can't Be Forgiven, Or That We Will Never Forgive Ourselves. But We Do-we Do It All The Time.

One Stroke Of Lightning Does Not Have To Lead Anywhere, But To The Next Stroke Of Lightning.

Anecdotes Don't Make Good Stories. Generally I Dig Down Underneath Them So Far That The Story That Finally Comes Out Is Not What People Thought Their Anecdotes Were About.

It Must Have Meant Something, Though, That At This Turn Of My Life I Grabbed Up A Book. Because It Was In Books That I Would Find, For The Next Few Years, My Lovers. They Were Men, Not Boys. They Were Self-possessed And Sardonic, With A Ferocious Streak In Them, Reserves Of Gloom.