She Was Like Marat Only With Nobody

And He Absolutely Had To Find Her At Once To Tell Her That He Adored Her, But The Large Audience Before Him Separated Him From The Door, And The Notes Reaching Him Through A Succession Of Hands Said That She Was Not Available; That She Was Inaugurating A Fire; That She Had Married An American Businessman; That She Had Become A Character In A Novel; That She Was Dead.

There Is Only One Real Number: One. And Love, Apparently, Is The Best Exponent Of This Singularity.

You See, She Had Absolutely Nowhere Else To Go.

You Know, What's So Dreadful About Dying Is That You Are Completely On Your Own.

I Always Call Him Lewis Carroll Carroll, Because He Was The First Humbert Humbert.