There's never been anything funny about a woman dying for love.
People did change, and a change could be a bloom as well as a withering.
If you haven't written a novel by the time you're forty you never will!
Dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn't much different, finally, from any other kind of dying.
If my work has a theme, I suspect it is a simple one: that most human beings are inescapably alone, and therein lies their tragedy.
Can you really think artists and writers are the only people entitled to lives of their own?