Ultimately, Literature Is Nothing But Carpentry.

It Was A Meditation On Life, Love, Old Age, Death: Ideas That Had Often Fluttered Around Her Head Like Nocturnal Birds But Dissolved Into A Trickle Of Feathers When She Tried To Catch Hold Of Them.

Love Becomes Greater And Nobler In Calamity.

She Felt The Abyss Of Disenchantment.

It Is Impossible To Explain. But What I Like Most Is To Eat.

Nothing One Does In Bed Is Immoral If It Helps To Perpetuate Love.