Words Fail, There Are Times When Even

Silence, Yes, But What Silence! For It Is All Very Fine To Keep Silence, But One Has Also To Consider The Kind Of Silence One Keeps.

James Joyce: His Writing Is Not About Something. It Is The Thing Itself.

Yesterday Is Not A Milestone That Has Been Passed, But A Daystone On The Beaten Track Of The Years, And Irremediably Part Of Us, Within Us, Heavy And Dangerous. We Are Not Merely More Weary Because Of Yesterday, We Are Other, No Longer What We Were Before The Calamity Of Yesterday.

Decidedly It Will Never Have Been Given To Me To Finish Anything, Except Perhaps Breathing. One Must Not Be Greedy.

Love, That Is All I Asked, A Little Love, Daily, Twice Daily, Fifty Years Of Twice Daily Love Like A Paris Horse-butcher's Regular, What Normal Woman Wants Affection?