Love Must Wait; It Must Break One’s

In A Certain Sense, A Writer Is An Exile, An Outsider, Always Reporting On Things, And It Is Part Of His Life To Keep On The Move. Travel Is Natural.

We Dash The Black River, Its Flats Smooth As Stone. Not A Ship, Not A Dinghy, Not One Cry Of White. The Water Lies Broken, Cracked From The Wind. This Great Estuary Is Wide, Endless. The River Is Brackish, Blue With The Cold. It Passes Beneath Us Blurring. The Sea Birds Hang Above It, They Wheel, Disappear. We Flash The Wide River, A Dream Of The Past. The Deeps Fall Behind, The Bottom Is Paling The Surface, We Rush By The Shallows, Boats Beached For Winter, Desolate Piers. And On Wings Like The Gulls, Soar Up, Turn, Look Back.

Why Is It So Difficult To Assemble Those Things That Really Matter In Life And To Dwell Among Them Only? I Am Referring To Certain Landscapes, Persons, Beasts, Books, Rooms, Meteorological Conditions, Fruits.

You Would Have To Be Very Optimistic To Think That Any Of Your Books Will Be Among The Books That Survive In The Very Long Run. I Think If A Writer Is Lucky Enough To Still Have A Few Books Around After He's Gone, A Few That Are Still Being Read, Then He's Accomplished Quite A Lot.

They Lay Silently. She Was Staring At Something Across The Room. She Was Making Him Feel Uncomfortable. 'it Wouldn't Work. It's The Attraction Of Opposites,' He Said. We're Not Opposites.' I Don't Mean Just You And Me. Women Fall In Love When They Get To Know You. Men Are Just The Opposite. When They Finally Know You They're Ready To Leave.