Where does one go from a world of insanity? Somewhere on the other side of despair.

The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.

Envy is everywhere. Who is without envy? And most people Are unaware or unashamed of being envious.

Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other Who think the same thoughts without need of speech

People to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.

I hate university towns and university people, who are the same everywhere, with pregnant wives, sprawling children, many books and hideous pictures on the walls ... Oxford is very pretty, but I don't like to be dead.

Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, every poem an epitaph.