Until I Have Been Able To Bury

Trains Induce Such Terrible Anxiety. They Image The Possibility Of Total And Irrevocable Failure. They Are Also Dirty, Rackety, Packed With Strangers, An Object Lesson In The Foul Contingency Of Life: The Talkative Fellow-traveller, The Possibility Of Children.

We Can Only Learn To Love By Loving.

Art And Psychoanalysis Give Shape And Meaning To Life And That Is Why We Adore Them, But Life As It Is Lived Has No Shape And Meaning.

I Feel Half Faded Away Like Some Figure In The Background Of An Old Picture.

Oh The Piercing Sadness Of Life In The Midst Of Its Ordinariness!