The Lovesick, The Betrayed, And

Perhaps The Only Misplaced Curiosity Is That Which Persists In Trying To Find Out Here, On This Side Of Death, What Lies Beyond The Grave.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

The True Traveler Is He Who Goes On Foot, And Even Then, He Sits Down A Lot Of The Time.

Chance, My Master And My Friend, Will, I Feel Sure, Deign Once Again To Send Me The Spirits Of His Unruly Kingdom. All My Trust Is Now In Him- And In Myself. But Above All In Him, For When I Go Under He Always Fishes Me Out, Seizing And Shaking Me Like A Life-saving Dog Whose Teeth Tear My Skin A Little Every Time. So Now, Whenever I Despair, I No Longer Expect My End, But Some Bit Of Luck, Some Commonplace Little Miracle Which, Like A Glittering Link, Will Mend Again The Necklace Of My Days.

My True Friends Have Always Given Me That Supreme Proof Of Devotion, A Spontaneous Aversion For The Man I Loved.