Maybe We've Grown Out Of Each Other.

I Think Probably I'm Quite Sentimental; I Like Big Emotional Stories, I Like Being Moved By Things, But I Think I'm Very Embarrassed By Sentiment. I'm Very Embarrassed By Corniness.

Everything Was Fine, And She Had The Rare, New Sensation Of Being Exactly Where She Wanted To Be.

The Sad Fact Is That I Love Dickens And Donne And Keats And Eliot And Forster And Conrad And Fitzgerald And Kafka And Wilde And Orwell And Waugh And Marvell And Greene And Sterne And Shakespeare And Webster And Swift And Yeats And Joyce And Hardy, Really, Really Love Them. It’s Just That They Don’t Love Me Back.

I Contemplate The Idea That Maybe I'm An Alcoholic. I Get This Occassionally, The Need To Define Myself As Something-or-the-other, And At Various Times In My Life Have Wondered If I'm A Goth, A Homosexul, A Jew, A Catholic Or A Manic Depressive, Whether I Am Adopted, Or Have A Hole In My Heart, Or Possess The Ability To Move Objects With The Power Of My Mind, And Have Always, Most Regretfully, Come To The Conclusion That I'm None Of The Above. The Fact Is I'm Actually Not Anything.

As The Possibility Of A Relationship Had Faded, Emma Had Endeavored To Harden Herself To Dexter's Indifference And These Days A Remark Like This Caused No More Pain Than, Say, A Tennis Ball Thrown Sharply At The Back Of Her Head.