Spoilt Pleasure Is A Sad, Unseemly Thing;

Proust Has Pointed Out That The Predisposition To Love Creates Its Own Objects; Is This Not Also True Of Fear?

It Is In This Unearthly First Hour Of Spring Twilight That Earth's Almost Agonized Livingness Is Most Felt. This Hour Is So Dreadful To Some People That They Hurry Indoors And Turn On The Lights.

Darling, I Don't Want You; I've Got No Place For You; I Only Want What You Give. I Don't Want The Whole Of Anyone.... What You Want Is The Whole Of Me-isn't It, Isn't It?-and The Whole Of Me Isn't There For Anybody. In That Full Sense You Want Me I Don't Exist.

Each Of Us Keeps, Battened Down Inside Himself, A Sort Of Lunatic Giant; Impossible Socially, But Full Scale; And It's The Knockings And Battering We Sometimes Hear In Each Other That Keep Our Banter From Utter Banality.

Life Is A Succession Of Readjustments.