I am the only real truth I know.
Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights.
The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.
Love was a terrible thing. You poisoned it and stabbed at it and knocked it down into the mud - well down - and it got up and staggered on, bleeding and muddy and awful. Like - like Rasputin.