So much of life [is] a putting-off of unhappiness for another time. Nothing [is] ever lost by delay.
And there, in that phrase, the bitterness leaks again out of my pen. What a dull lifeless quality this bitterness is. If I could I would write with love, but if I could write with love I would be another man; I would never have lost love.
Sooner or later... one has to take sides. If one is to remain human.
When we are not sure, we are alive.
I can't talk you in terms of time --your time and my time are different
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.