...every Monologue Sooner Or Later Becomes A

Her Face Looked Ugly In The Attempt To Avoid Tears; It Was An Ugliness Which Bound Him To Her More Than Any Beauty Could Have Done. It Isn't Being Happy Together, He Thought As Though It Were A Fresh Discovery, That Makes One Love--it's Being Unhappy Together.

Unhappiness In A Child Accumulates Because He Sees No End To The Dark Tunnel. The Thirteen Weeks Of A Term Might Just As Well Be Thirteen Years.

Writing Is A Form Of Therapy; Sometimes I Wonder How All Those Who Do Not Write, Compose Or Paint Can Manage To Escape The Madness, Melancholia, The Panic And Fear Which Is Inherent In A Human Situation.

However Great A Man's Fear Of Life, Suicide Remains The Courageous Act, The Clear-headed Act Of A Mathematician. The Suicide Has Judged By The Laws Of Chance - So Many Odds Against One That To Live Will Be More Miserable Than To Die. His Sense Of Mathematics Is Greater Than His Sense Of Survival. But Think How A Sense Of Survival Must Clamor To Be Heard At The Last Moment, What Excuses It Must Present Of A Totally Unscientific Nature.

One Forgets So Quickly One's Own Youth.