We say of some things that they can't be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do-we do it all the time.

As a matter of fact she does not know to this day if those words were spoken, or if he only caught her, wound his arms around her, held her so tightly, with such continual, changing pressures that it seemed more than two arms were needed, that she was surrounded by him, his body strong and light, demanding and renouncing all at once, as if he was telling her she was wrong to give up on him, everything was possible, but then again that she was not wrong, he meant to stam himself on her and go.

The images, the language, of pornography, and romance are alike; monotonous and mechanically seductive, quickly leading to despair.

The story fails but your faith in the importance of doing the story doesn't fail.

I read a book called The Art of Loving. A lot of things seemed clear while I was reading it but afterwards I went back to being more or less the same.

I would really hope this would make people see the short story as an important art, not just something you played around with until you got a novel.

One drop of hatred in your soul will spread and discolor everything like a drop of black ink in white milk.