It Was Like Having A Box Of

We Can Love With Our Minds, But Can We Love Only With Our Minds? Love Extends Itself All The Time, So That We Can Love Even With Our Senseless Nails: We Love Even With Our Clothes, So That A Sleeve Can Feel A Sleeve.

I Get Fed Up With All This Nonsense Of Ringing People Up And Lighting Cigarettes And Answering The Doorbell That Passes For Action In So Many Modern Plays.

Communism, My Friend, Is More Than Marxism, Just As Catholicism Is More Than The Roman Curia. There Is A Mystique As Well As A Politick. Catholics And Communists Have Committed Great Crimes, But At Least They Have Not Stood Aside, Like An Established Society, And Been Indifferent. I Would Rather Have Blood On My Hands Than Water Like Pilate.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days. One May Be Preoccupied With Shopping And Income Tax Returns And Chance Conversations, But The Stream Of The Unconscious Continues To Flow Undisturbed, Solving Problems, Planning Ahead: One Sits Down Sterile And Dispirited At The Desk, And Suddenly The Words Come As Though From The Air: The Situations That Seemed Blocked In A Hopeless Impasse Move Forward: The Work Has Been Done While One Slept Or Shopped Or Talked With Friends.

I Couldn't Help Wondering, Is My Husband So Unattractive That No Woman Has Ever Wanted Him? Except Me, Of Course. I Must Have Wanted Him, In A Way, Once, But I've Forgotten Why, And I Was Too Young To Know What I Was Choosing.