Anything That Consoles Is Fake.

All Our Failures Are Ultimately Failures In Love.

My Heart Was Beating Like An Army On The March.

Every Book Is The Wreck Of A Perfect Idea.

Then I Felt Too That I Might Take This Opportunity To Tie Up A Few Loose Ends, Only Of Course Loose Ends Can Never Be Properly Tied, One Is Always Producing New Ones. Time, Like The Sea, Unties All Knots. Judgements On People Are Never Final, They Emerge From Summings Up Which At Once Suggest The Need Of A Reconsideration. Human Arrangements Are Nothing But Loose Ends And Hazy Reckoning, Whatever Art May Otherwise Pretend In Order To Console Us.

For Most Of Us The Space Between 'dreaming On Things To Come' And 'it Is Too Late, It Is All Over' Is Too Tiny To Enter.