If You Live In A Place For

It Was As Though Our Love Were A Small Creature Caught In A Trap And Bleeding To Death: I Had To Shut My Eyes And Wring Its Neck.

The Problem Of Pretending To Be Alive.

Childhood Was The Germ Of All Mistrust. You Were Cruelly Joked Upon And Then You Cruelly Joked. You Lost The Remembrance Of Pain Through Inflicting It.

Like The Characters In Chekhov, They Have No Reserves -– You Learn The Most Intimate Secrets. You Get An Impression Of A World Peopled By Eccentrics, Of Odd Professions, Almost Incredible Stupidities, And, To Balance Them, Amazing Endurances.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days.