All Good Dialogue Perhaps Deals

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

Memory Must Be Patchy; What Is More Alarming Is Its Face-savingness. Something In One Shrinks From Catching It Out - Unique To Oneself, One's Own, One's Claim To Identity, It Implicates One's Identity In Its Fibbing.

I Am Fully Intelligent Only When I Write. I Have A Certain Amount Of Small-change Intelligence, Which I Carry Round With Me As, At Any Rate In A Town, One Has To Carry Small Money, For The Needs Of The Day, The Non-writing Day. But It Seems To Me I Seldom Purely Think ... If I Thought More I Might Write Less.

Spoilt Pleasure Is A Sad, Unseemly Thing; You Can Only Bury It.

Only In A House Where One Has Learnt To Be Lonely Does One Have This Solicitude For Things. One's Relation To Them, The Daily Seeing Or Touching, Begins To Become Love, And To Lay One Open To Pain.