Next Week, Or Next Month, Or Next

I Like Shape Very Much. A Novel Has To Have Shape, And Life Doesn't Have Any.

After All This, What Happened? What Happened Was That, As Soon As I Had The Slightest Chance Of A Place To Hide In, I Crept Into It And Hid. Well, Sometimes It's A Fine Day Isn't It? Sometimes The Skies Are Blue. Sometimes The Air Is Light, Easy To Breathe. And There Is Always Tomorrow.

Only The Magic And The Dream Are True — All The Rest's A Lie.

But Why Do You Want To Talk To Me?' He Is Going To Say: 'because You Look So Kind,' Or 'because You Look So Beautiful And Kind,' Or, Subtly, 'because You Look As If You'll Understand....' He Says: 'because I Think You Won't Betray Me.' I Had Meant To Get This Mean To Talk To Me And Tell Me All About It, And Then Be So Devastatingly English That Perhaps I Should Manage To Hurt Him A Little In Return For All The Many Times I've Been Hurt.... 'because I Think You Won't Betray Me, Because I Think You Won't Betray Me....' Now It Won't Be So Easy.

I Watched Her Die Many Times. In My Way, Not In Hers. In Sunlight, In Shadow, By Moonlight, By Candlelight. In The Long Afternoons When The House Was Empty. Only The Sun Was There To Keep Us Company. We Shut Him Out. And Why Not? Very Soon She Was As Eager For What's Called Loving As I Was - More Lost And Drowned Afterwards.