A City Becomes A World When One

She Took Kisses Like So Many Coats Of Paint […] How Long And How Vainly I Searched For Excuses Which Might Make Her Amorality If Not Palatable At Lest Understandable. I Realize Now The Time I Wasted In This Way; Instead Of Enjoying Her And Turning Aside From These Preoccupations With The Thought, ‘she Is Untrustworthy As She Is Beautiful. She Takes Love As Plants Do Water, Lightly, Thoughtlessly.

It Is Not Love That Is Blind, But Jealousy.

The Realisation Of One's Own Death Is The Point At Which One Becomes Adult.

Truth Is A Woman. That Is Why It Is Enigmatic.

How Grudging Memory Is, And How Bitterly She Clutches The Raw Material Of Her Daily Work.