Temperamentally, The Writer Exists On Happenings, On

I Do Like Italian Graves; They Look So Much More Lived In.

There Is No Doubt That Sorrow Brings One Down In The World. The Aristocratic Privilege Of Silence Belongs, You Soon Find Out, To Only The Happy State- Or, At Least, To The State When Pain Keeps Within Bounds.

First Love, With Its Frantic Haughty Imagination, Swings Its Object Clear Of The Everyday, Over The Rut Of Living, Making Him All Looks, Silences, Gestures, Attitudes, A Burning Phrase With No Context.

... Love Dreads Being Isolated, Being Left To Speak In A Void -- At The Beginning It Would Often Rather Listen Than Speak.

Not Only Is There No Question Of Solitude, But In The Long Run We May Not Choose Our Company.