Every Love Story Is A Potential Grief

The Companionship Of Dead Writers Is A Wonderful Form Of Live Friendship.

When You’re Young You Prefer The Vulgar Months, The Fullness Of The Seasons. As You Grow Older You Learn To Like The In-between Times, The Months That Can’t Make Up Their Minds. Perhaps It’s A Way Of Admitting That Things Can’t Ever Bear The Same Certainty Again.

I Have At Times Tried To Imagine The Despair Which Leads To Suicide, Attempted To Conjure Up The Slew And Slop Of Darkness In Which Only Death Appears As A Pinprick Of Light: In Other Words, The Exact Opposite Of The Normal Condition Of Life.

Perhaps The World Progresses Not By Maturing, But By Being In A Permanent State Of Adolescence, Of Thrilled Discovery.

The Next Day, When I Was Sober, I Thought Again About The Three Of Us, And About Time's Many Paradoxes. For Instance: That When We Are Young And Sensitive, We Are Also At Our Most Hurtful; Whereas When The Blood Begins To Slow, When We Feel Less Sharply, When We Are More Armoured And Have Learnt How To Bear Hurt, We Tread More Carefully.