I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.

I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.

But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.

Strange, when one thinks of all the other boys, infinite experimental kisses, test tube infatuations, crushes, pseudo-loves. All through this physical separation, through the testing and the trying of the others, there has been this peculiar rapport, comradeship, of us two so alike, so similar, but for science-boy and humanities-girl - the introspection, self examination, biannual deep summarizing conversations, and then the platonic parting.

I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.

I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.