I can't go on. I'll go on.

The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.

But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.

Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?

That passed the time. It would have passed in any case. Yes, but not so rapidly.

I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.

Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.