The Only Way For Writers To Meet

We Love But Once, For Once Only Are We Perfectly Equipped For Loving.

No-one Was Ever Made Wretched In A Brothel.

Beneath A Mask Of Selfish Tranquility Nothing Exists Except Bitterness And Boredom.

When I Write After Dark The Shades Of Evening Scatter Their Purple Through My Prose.

There Is No Pain Equal To That Which Two Lovers Can Inflict On One Another... It Is When We Begin To Hurt Those Whom We Love That The Guilt With Which We Are Born Becomes Intolerable, And Since All Those Whom We Love Intensely And Continuously Grow Part Of Us, And Since We Hate Ourselves In Them, So We Torture Ourselves And Them Together.