Be Happy. It's One Way Of Being

No One Asked You To Be Happy. Get To Work.

By Means Of An Image We Are Often Able To Hold On To Our Lost Belongings. But It Is The Desperateness Of Losing Which Picks The Flowers Of Memory, Binds The Bouquet.

If We Want To Be Sincere, We Must Admit That There Is A Well-nourished Love And An Ill-nourished Love. And The Rest Is Literature.

The Only Virtue On Which I Pride Myself Is My Self-doubt; When A Writer Loses Her Self-doubt, The Time Has Come To Lay Aside Her Pen.

It's So Curious: One Can Resist Tears And 'behave' Very Well In The Hardest Hours Of Grief. But Then Someone Makes You A Friendly Sign Behind A Window, Or One Notices That A Flower That Was In Bud Only Yesterday Has Suddenly Blossomed, Or A Letter Slips From A Drawer... And Everything Collapses.