...what is romance, but a mutual pact of delusion? When the pact ends , there's nothing left.

...what is romance, but a mutual pact of delusion? When the pact ends , there's nothing left.

I'm a child in that respect: able to live, physically speaking, on a crumb of anticipation for weeks at a time, but always in danger of crushing the waited-for event with the freight of my excessive hope.

If everybody was so reverent of the institute of marriage, how did all the adultery get committed?

Somewhere between sanity and madness lays a fine line, for some it is a tightrope walked daily, a fight for balance to be won or lost. That fight is lost one of two ways. Some simply lose their balance and fall, others are pushed.

When you live alone, your furnishings, your possessions, are always confronting you with the thinness of your existence.

It's always a disappointing business confronting my own reflection. My body isn't bad. It's a perfectly nice, serviceable body. It's just that the external me- the study, lightly wrinkled, handbagged me- does so little credit to the stuff that's inside.