Poets Suffer Occasional Delusions Of Angelhood And

One Knows One's Madnesses, By And Large. By And Large The Knowledge Is Vacuous. The Notion Of Naming The Beast To Conquer It Is The Idiot Optimism Of Psychotherapy.

This Is Love: You Stop Bothering About The Universal, The General, Get Sucked Instead Into The Local And Particular: When Will I See Her Again? What Shall We Do Today? Do You Like These Shoes? Theory And Reflection Are Delicate Old Uncles Bustled Out Of The Way By The Boisterous Nephews Action And Desire. Themes Evaporate, Only Plot Remains.

Falling In Love Makes The Unknown Known. Falling Out Of Love Reverses The Process.

I'll Tell You Something,' She Said. 'i'm Not Sure I Ever Really Liked Him.' Adam?' I Said. 'i Don't Blame You.' 'not Adam,' She Said, Struggling To Swallow A Greedily Chomped Chunk. 'god.

Once You've Stopped Loving Someone Breaking His Or Her Heart's Just An Unpleasant Chore You Have To Get Behind You. My God, You Really Don't Love Me Anymore, Do You? No Matter Your Decency The Victim's Incredulity's Potentially Hilarious. You Manage Not To Laugh.