I Know All One Can Know When

I've Forgotten The Words With Which To Tell You. I Knew Them Once, But I've Forgotten Them, And Now I'm Talking To You Without Them.

In Heterosexual Love There's No Solution. Man And Woman Are Irreconcilable, And It's The Doomed Attempt To Do The Impossible, Repeated In Each New Affair, That Lends Heterosexual Love Its Grandeur.

That She Had So Completely Recovered Her Sanity Was A Source Of Sadness To Her. One Should Never Be Cured Of One's Passion.

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.

What She Said Was Always Strange. It Had Happened Long Ago. It Seemed Insignificant. And Yet It Was Something You Remembered Forever. The Words As Well As The Story. The Voice As Much As The Words.