So - Whatever Happened To You?' 'life.

I Am Not Up To This. I Am Not Capable. I Thought I Would Be, But I'm Not. Some Part Of Me Is Missing, And I Cannot Do This.

The Sad Fact Is That I Love Dickens And Donne And Keats And Eliot And Forster And Conrad And Fitzgerald And Kafka And Wilde And Orwell And Waugh And Marvell And Greene And Sterne And Shakespeare And Webster And Swift And Yeats And Joyce And Hardy, Really, Really Love Them. It’s Just That They Don’t Love Me Back.

She Was Reaching The Limits Of How Much Its Possible To Change A Man

Letters, Like Compilation Tapes, Were Really Vehicles For Unexpressed Emotions And She Was Clearly Putting Far Too Much Time And Energy Into Them.

Their Friendship Was Like A Wilted Bunch Of Flowers That She Insisted On Topping Up With Water. Why Not Let It Die Instead?