Like Some Wines Our Love Could Neither

My Two Fingers On A Typewriter Have Never Connected With My Brain. My Hand On A Pen Does. A Fountain Pen, Of Course. Ball-point Pens Are Only Good For Filling Out Forms On A Plane.

I Can Never Think Of You As A Friend. You Can Do Without A Friend.

Childhood Was The Germ Of All Mistrust. You Were Cruelly Joked Upon And Then You Cruelly Joked. You Lost The Remembrance Of Pain Through Inflicting It.

The Sense Of Unhappiness Is So Much Easier To Convey Than That Of Happiness. In Misery We Seem Aware Of Our Own Existence, Even Though It May Be In The Form Of A Monstrous Egotism: This Pain Of Mine Is Individual, This Nerve That Winces Belongs To Me And To No Other. But Happiness Annihilates Us: We Lose Our Identity.

I Never Knew A Man Who Had Better Motives For All The Trouble He Caused.