He was impregnably armored by his good intentions and his ignorance.

It was as though our love were a small creature caught in a trap and bleeding to death: I had to shut my eyes and wring its neck.

We'd forgive most things if we knew the facts.

What have we all got to expect that we allow ourselves to be so lined with disappointment?

So much of life [is] a putting-off of unhappiness for another time. Nothing [is] ever lost by delay.

To comfort me is like the wrong memory at the wrong place or time: if one is lonely one prefers discomfort.

Death never mattered at those times - in the early days I even used to pray for it: the shattering annihilation that would prevent for ever the getting up, the putting on of clothes, the wathchign her torch trail across to the opposite side of the common like the tail-light of a low car driving away.