Prose Is Like Hair; It Shines With

Everything Which One Invents Is True, Be Sure Of It.

There Comes A Point At Which You Stop Writing And Think All The More

She Was The Amoureuse Of All The Novels, The Heroine Of All The Plays, The Vague “she” Of All The Poetry Books.

We Swung Between Madness And Suicide ... It Was Beautiful!

Anything Becomes Interesting If You Look At It Long Enough.