There Was No Point In

I Was At A Loss Suddenly; But Conscious All The While Of How Armand Listened; That He Listened In The Way That We Dream Of Others Listening, His Face Seeming To Reflect On Every Thing Said. He Did Not Start Forward To Seize On My Slightest Pause, To Assert An Understanding Of Something Before The Thought Was Finished, Or To Argue With A Swift, Irresistible Impulse -- The Things Which Often Make Dialogue Impossible. And After A Long Interval He Said, 'i Want You. I Want You More Than Anything In The World.

My Conscience Is Killing Me, Isn't It? And When You're Immortal That Can Be A Really Long And Ignominious Death

I Can't Get Very Far Away From Christianity, I Can't Get Very Far Away From The Angels And The Saints. I Work Them In Always, In Some Way.

If You Want To Be A Writer, Write. Write And Write And Write. If You Stop, Start Again. Save Everything That You Write. If You Feel Blocked, Write Through It Until You Feel Your Creative Juices Flowing Again. Write. Writing Is What Makes A Writer, Nothing More And Nothing Less.

We Shall Live Even In This State Of Living Death, We Shall Love, We Shall Feel, We Shall Defy All Who Would Judge And Destroy Us.