The Happiness Of Others Is Never Bearable

I Was Thinking That I Should Be Content To Kiss Him Until The Break Of Day. Bertrand Ran Out Of Kisses Too Soon; Desire Made Them Superfluous In His Eyes. They Were Only A Stage On The Road To Pleasure, Not Something Inexhaustible And Self-sufficient, As Luc Had Revealed Them To Me.

It Would Be Bad Form For Me To Describe People I Don't Know And Don't Understand.

All My Life, I Will Continue Obstinately To Write About Love, Solitude And Passion Among The Kind Of People I Know. The Rest Don't Interest Me.

A Strange Melancholy Pervades Me To Which I Hesitate To Give The Grave And Beautiful Name Of Sorrow. The Idea Of Sorrow Has Always Appealed To Me But Now I Am Almost Ashamed Of It's Complete Egoism. I Have Known Boredom, Regret, And Occasionally Remorse, But Never Sorrow. Today It Envelops Me Like A Silken Web, Enervating And Soft, And Sets Me Apart From Everybody Else.

I Have Loved To The Point Of Madness; That Which Is Called Madness, That Which To Me, Is The Only Sensible Way To Love.