It Was Like Having A

Nobody Here Could Ever Talk About A Heaven On Earth. Heaven Remained Rigidly In Its Proper Place On The Other Side Of Death, And On This Side Flourished The Injustices, The Cruelties, The Meanness That Elsewhere People So Cleverly Hushed Up. Here You Could Love Human Beings Nearly As God Loved Them, Knowing The Worst: You Didn't Love A Pose, A Pretty Dress, A Sentiment Artfully Assumed.

Death Never Mattered At Those Times - In The Early Days I Even Used To Pray For It: The Shattering Annihilation That Would Prevent For Ever The Getting Up, The Putting On Of Clothes, The Wathchign Her Torch Trail Across To The Opposite Side Of The Common Like The Tail-light Of A Low Car Driving Away.

Sometimes I See Myself Reflected Too Closely In Other Men For Comfort, And Then I Have An Enormous Wish To Believe In The Saints, In Heroic Virtue.

It Was As Though Our Love Were A Small Creature Caught In A Trap And Bleeding To Death: I Had To Shut My Eyes And Wring Its Neck.

To Comfort Me Is Like The Wrong Memory At The Wrong Place Or Time: If One Is Lonely One Prefers Discomfort.