How Strange Women Are.

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.

If You're Going To Be A Writer You Have To Be One Of The Great Ones... After All, There Are Better Ways To Starve To Death.

Thus They Went On Living In A Reality That Was Slipping Away, Momentarily Captured By Words, But Which Would Escape Irremediably When They Forgot The Values Of The Written Letters.

To Him She Seemed So Beautiful, So Seductive, So Different From Ordinary People, That He Could Not Understand Why No One Was As Disturbed As He By The Clicking Of Her Heels On The Paving Stones, Why No One Else's Heart Was Wild With The Breeze Stirred By The Sighs Of Her Veils, Why Everyone Did Not Go Mad With The Movements Of Her Braid, The Flight Of Her Hands, The Gold Of Her Laughter. He Had Not Missed A Single One Of Her Gestures, Not One Of The Indications Of Her Character, But He Did Not Dare Approach Her For Fear Of Destroying The Spell.

For You Was I Born, For You Do I Have Life, For You Will I Die, For You Am I Now Dying.