I Am Entirely Alone. I And My

Vengeful As Nature Herself, She Loves Her Children Only In Order To Devour Them Better And If She Herself Rips Her Own Veils Of Self-deceit, Mother Perceives In Herself Untold Abysses Of Cruelty As Subtle As It Is Refined.

I Should Have Liked To Have Had Him Beside Me In A Glass Coffin, So That I Could Watch Him All The Time And He Would Not Have Been Able To Get Away From Me.

We Do Not Go To Bed In Single Pairs; Even If We Choose Not To Refer To Them, We Still Drag There With Us The Cultural Impedimenta Of Our Social Class, Our Parents' Lives, Our Bank Balances, Our Sexual And Emotional Expectations, Our Whole Biographies-all The Bits And Pieces Of Our Unique Existences.

Reading A Book Is Like Re-writing It For Yourself. You Bring To A Novel, Anything You Read, All Your Experience Of The World. You Bring Your History And You Read It In Your Own Terms.

His Contagious Conviction That Our Love Was Unique And Desperate Infected Me With An Anxious Sickness; Soon We Would Learn To Treat One Another With The Circumspect Tenderness Of Comrades Who Are Amputees, For We Were Surrounded By The Most Moving Images Of Evanesecence, Fireworks, Morning Glories, The Old, Children. But The Most Moving Of These Images Were The Intagible Relfections Of Ourselves We Saw In One Another's Eyes, Reflections Of Nothing But Appearances, In A City Dedicated To Seeming, And, Try As We Might To Possess The Essence Of Each Other's Otherness, We Would Inevitably Fail.