What matters is the imaginative truth.

I know the mistake I am making. I see the exits in life.

There was I, devouring books and yet allowing a man who had never read a book to walk me home for a bit of harmless fumbling on the front steps.

shadows of love, inebriations of love, foretastes of love, trickles of love, but never yet the one true love.

There was always a real reason for everything - why spoons tarnished, and jam furred, and people declined into God, or drink, or card games.

I did not sleep. I never do when I am over-happy, over-unhappy, or in bed with a strange man.

We all leave one another. We die, we change - it's mostly change - we outgrow our best friends; but even if I do leave you, I will have passed on to you something of myself; you will be a different person because of knowing me; it's inescapable.