There Is No Harvest For

What Release To Write So That One Forgets Oneself, Forgets One's Companion, Forgets Where One Is Or What One Is Going To Do Next To Be Drenched In Sleep Or In The Sea. Pencils And Pads And Curling Blue Sheets Alive With Letters Heap Up On The Desk.

Grief Can't Be Shared. Everyone Carries It Alone. His Own Burden In His Own Way.

One Must Go Through Periods Of Numbness That Are Harder To Bear Than Grief.

How Hard It Is To Have The Beautiful Interdependence Of Marriage And Yet Be Strong In Oneself Alone.

Why Is Life Speeded Up So? Why Are Things So Terribly, Unbearably Precious That You Can't Enjoy Them But Can Only Wait Breathless In Dread Of Their Going?