He was like a child with haemophilia: every contact drew blood.

Sometimes I get so tired of trying to convince him that I love him and shall love him for ever. He pounces on my words like a barrister and twists them. I know he is afraid of that desert which would be around him if our love were to end, but he can't realise that I feel exactly the same. What he says aloud, I say to myself silently and write it here.

Like some wines our love could neither mature nor travel.

Hate is an automatic response to fear, for fear humiliates.

Hate is a lack of imagination.

Reality in our century is not something to be faced.

All the emotions have something in common. People are quite aware of the sorrow there always is in lust, but they are not so aware of the lust there is in sorrow.