[my Early Stories] Are The Work Of

Exhibitionism And A Nervous Wish For Concealment, For Anonymity, Thus Battle Inside The Buyer Of Any Piece Of Clothing.

The Paradox Of Romantic Love -- That What One Possesses, One Can No Longer Desire -- Was At Work.

She Had One Of Those Charming Faces Which, According To The Angle From Which You See Them, Look Either Melancholy Or Impertinent. Her Eyes Were Grey; Her Trick Of Narrowing Them Made Her Seem To Reflect, The Greater Part Of The Time, In The Dusk Of Her Second Thoughts. With That Mood, That Touch Of Arriere Pensee, Went An Uncertain, Speaking Set Of Lips.

Proust Has Pointed Out That The Predisposition To Love Creates Its Own Objects; Is This Not Also True Of Fear?

All My Life I Have Said, "whatever Happens There Will Always Be Tables And Chairs"--and What A Mistake.