My Heart's In My Hand, And My

Anyone Who Knows A Strange Fact Shares In Its Singularity.

Beauty Has No Other Origin Than The Singular Wound, Different In Every Case, Hidden Or Visible, Which Each Man Bears Within Himself, Which He Preserves, And Into Which He Withdraws When He Would Quit The World For A Temporary But Authentic Solitude

Excluded By My Birth And Tastes From The Social Order, I Was Not Aware Of Its Diversity. Nothing In The World Was Irrelevant: The Stars On A General's Sleeve, The Stock-market Quotations, The Olive Harvest, The Style Of The Judiciary, The Wheat Exchange, Flower-beds. Nothing. This Order, Fearful And Feared, Whose Details Were All Inter-related, Had A Meaning: My Exile.

It's A True Image, Born Of A False Spectacle.

Love Makes Use Of The Worst Traps. The Least Noble. The Rarest. It Exploits Coincidence.