To Comfort Me Is Like The Wrong

Tea At College Was Served On Long Tables With An Urn At The End Of Each. Long Baguettes Of Bread, Three To A Table, Were Set Out With Meagre Portions Of Butter And Jam; The China Was Coarse To Withstand The Schoolboy-clutch And The Tea Strong. At The Hôtel De Paris I Was Astonished At The Fragility Of The Cups, The Silver Teapot, The Little Triangular Savoury Sandwiches, The éclairs Stuffed With Cream.

Perhaps The Sexual Life Is The Great Test. If We Can Survive It With Charity To Those We Love And With Affection To Those We Have Betrayed, We Needn't Worry So Much About The Good And The Bad In Us. But Jealousy, Distrust, Cruelty, Revenge, Recrimination ... Then We Fail. The Wrong Is In That Failure Even If We Are The Victims And Not The Executioners. Virtue Is No Excuse.

He Had Stylized Himself--life Was Easier That Way. He Had Chosen A Physical Mould Just As Writer Chooses A Technical Form.

Insecurity Is The Worst Sense That Lovers Feel; Sometimes The Most Humdrum Desireless Marriage Seems Better. Insecurity Twists Meanings And Poisons Trust.

I Envied Those Who Could Believe In A God And I Distrusted Them. I Felt They Were Keeping Their Courage Up With A Fable Of The Changeless And The Permanent. Death Was Far More Certain Than God, And With Death There Would Be No Longer The Possibility Of Love Dying.