I Sit At My Window And The

I Like Shape Very Much. A Novel Has To Have Shape, And Life Doesn't Have Any.

After All This, What Happened? What Happened Was That, As Soon As I Had The Slightest Chance Of A Place To Hide In, I Crept Into It And Hid. Well, Sometimes It's A Fine Day Isn't It? Sometimes The Skies Are Blue. Sometimes The Air Is Light, Easy To Breathe. And There Is Always Tomorrow.

The Feeling Of Sunday Is The Same Everywhere, Heavy, Melancholy, Standing Still.

My Life, Which Seems So Simple And Monotonous, Is Really A Complicated Affair Of Cafés Where They Like Me And Cafés Where They Don't, Streets That Are Friendly, Streets That Aren't, Rooms Where I Might Be Happy, Rooms Where I Shall Never Be, Looking-glasses I Look Nice In, Looking-glasses I Don't, Dresses That Will Be Lucky, Dresses That Won't, And So On.

And I Saw That All My Life I Had Known That This Was Going To Happen, And That I'd Been Afraid For A Long Time, I'd Been Afraid For A Long Time. There's Fear, Of Course, With Everybody. But Now It Had Grown, It Had Grown Gigantic; It Filled Me And It Filled The Whole World.