We Have All Been Beaten!

The True Poet For Me Is A Priest. As Soon As He Dons The Cassock, He Must Leave His Family.

A Friend Who Dies, It's Something Of You Who Dies.

Writing Is A Dog's Life, But The Only Life Worth Living.

I Go From Exasperation To A State Of Collapse, Then I Recover And Go From Prostration To Fury, So That My Average State Is One Of Being Annoyed.

In Her Enthusiasms She Had Always Looked For Something Tangible: She Had Always Loved Church For Its Flowers, Music For Its Romantic Words, Literature For Its Power To Stir The Passions And She Rebelled Before The Mysteries Of Faith Just As She Grew Ever More Restive Under Discipline, Which Was Antipathetic To Her Nature.