One's favorite book is as elusive as one's favorite pudding.
We move between two darknesses.
How few writers can prostitute all their powers!
But the body is deeper than the soul and its secrets inscrutable.
It comes to this then: there always have been people like me and always will be, and generally they have been persecuted.
You do care a little for me, I know... but nothing to speak of, and you don't love me. I was yours once till death if you'd cared to keep me, but I'm someone else's now... and he's mine in a way that shocks you, but why don't you stop being shocked, and attend to your own happiness.