I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love, before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.

Recollection is not something that I can summon up, it simply comes and I am the servant of it.

Writing is like carrying a fetus.

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

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

There are times when the thing we are seeing changes before our very eyes, and if it is a landscape we praise nature, and if it is celestial we invoke God, but if it is a loved one who defects, we excuse ourselves and say we have to be somewhere and are already late for our next appointment. We do not stay to put pennies over the half-dead eyes.

Ideally I'd like to spend two evenings a week talking to Proust and another conversing with the Holy Ghost.