It's A True Image, Born Of A

When I Beheld You, Suddenly - For Perhaps A Second - I Had The Strength To Reject Everything That Wasn't You And To Laugh At The Illusion. But My Shoulders Are Very Frail. I Was Unable To Bear The Weight Of The World's Condemnation. And I Began To Hate You When Everything About You Would Have Kindled My Love And When Love Would Have Made Men's Contempt Unbearable, And Their Contempt Would Have Made My Love Unbearable. The Fact Is, I Hate You.

The Despondency That Follows Makes Me Feel Somewhat Like A Shipwrecked Man Who Spies A Sail, Sees Himself Saved, And Suddenly Remembers That The Lens Of His Spyglass Has A Flaw, A Blurred Spot -- The Sail He Has Seen.

Slowly But Surly I Want To Strip Her Of Every Kind Of Happiness As To Make A Saint Of Her.

They Spent Their Time Doing Nothing... They Let Intimacy Fuse Them.

...the Characters In My Books All Resemble Each Other. They Live, With Minor Variations, The Same Moments, The Same Perils, And When I Speak Of Them, My Language, Which Is Inspired By Them, Repeats The Same Poems In The Same Tone.