I Feel Sorry For Men.

He Lifted Me Up And Held Me Close Against Him, My Head On His Shoulder. At That Moment I Loved Him. In The Morning Light He Was As Golden, As Soft, As Gentle As Myself, And He Would Protect Me.

I Shall Live Badly If I Do Not Write, And I Shall Write Badly If I Do Not Live.

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.

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.

Passion Is The Salt Of Life, And That At The Times When We Are Under Its Spell This Salt Is Indispensable To Us, Even If We Have Got Along Very Well Without It Before.