I don't think he was ever happy unless someone was in love with him, responding to him like filings to a magnet, helping him to explain himself, promising him something. What it was I do not know. Perhaps they promised that there would always be women in the world who would spend their brightest, freshest, rarest hours to nurse and protect that superiority he cherished in his heart.

A man's social rank is determined by the amount of bread he eats in a sandwich.

He had no plans, no definite intentions, except to kiss her lips again, to hold her in his arms.

He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God.

She was a dark, unenduring little flower - yet he thought he detected in her some quality of spiritual reticence, of strength drawn from her passive acceptance of all things. In this he was mistaken.

In short, you have only your emotions to sell. This is the experience of all writers.

I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie.