Most People Do Not Believe

There Are Many Who Dare Not Kill Themselves For Fear Of What The Neighbours Will Say.

Like The Bee Its Sting, The Promiscuous Leave Behind Them In Each Encounter Something Of Themselves By Which They Are Made To Suffer.

There Are Only Three Things Which Make Life Worth Living: To Be Writing A Tolerably Good Book, To Be In A Dinner Party Of Six, And To Be Traveling South With Someone Whom Your Conscience Permits You To Love.

Beneath A Mask Of Selfish Tranquility Nothing Exists Except Bitterness And Boredom. I Am One Of Those Whom Suffering Has Made Empty And Frivolous: Each Night In My Dreams I Pull The Scab Off A Wound; Each Day, Vacuous And Habit-ridden, I Help It Re-form.

The Friendships Which Last Are Those Wherein Each Friend Respects The Other's Dignity To The Point Of Not Really Wanting Anything From Him.