I reject all evidence that my fabulous beloved is an ordinary person who worries, watches TV, and has bouts of indigestion.
The more learned a writer, the more digression beckons him.
Reason is sight. Instinct is touch. Intuition is smell.
Sometimes I dread loneliness more than bores. Other times, the reverse.
Rereading, we find a new book.
A neurotic can neither enjoy his illusions nor give them up.