Oh, Iโm not a Berkeleian. I believe my backโs against this wall. I believe thereโs a sten gun over there.
Pity is cruel. Pity destroys.
love had turned into "love affair" with a begining and an end.
There was a tacit understanding between them that 'liquor helped'; growing more miserable with every glass one hoped for the moment of relief.
It is the same in life: sometimes it is more difficult to make a scene than to die.
But I'm a bad priest, you see. I know--from experience--how much beauty Satan carried down with him when he fell. Nobody ever said the fallen angels were the ugly ones. Oh, no, they were just as quick and light and . . .