To Think Is To Be

Destiny And History Are Untidy.

I Have Been Loved,' She Said, 'by Something Strange, And It Has Forgotten Me.

The Very Condition Of Woman Is So Subject To Hazard, So Complex, And So Grievous, That To Place Her At One Moment Is But To Displace Her At The Next.

Love Becomes The Deposit Of The Heart, Analogous In All Degrees To The 'findings' In A Tomb. As In One Will Be Charted The Taken Place Of The Body, The Raiment, The Utensils Necessary To Its Other Life, So In The Heart Of The Lover Will Be Traced, As An Indelible Shadow, That Which He Loves.

Life Is Painful, Nasty And Short.. In My Case It Has Only Been Painful And Nasty.