To think that so much comes to so little, to think that life is really short.

And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.

My life is a vast inconsequential epic.

On soft Spring nights I'll stand in the yard under the stars - Something good will come out of all things yet - And it will be golden and eternal just like that - There's no need to say another word.

I took a straight picture that made me look like a thirty-year-old Italian who'd kill anybody who said something against his mother.

stick at it like a benni addict

You were my last chance' she's said but don't all women say that? - But can it be by 'last chance' she doesn't mean mere marriage but some profoundly sad realization of something in me she really needs to go on living, at least that impression coming across anyway on the force of all the gloom we've shared -