I Don't Have General Views About Anything,

It's Afterwards You Realize That The Feeling Of Happiness You Had With A Man Didn't Necessarily Prove That You Loved Him.

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.

It Has Been My Face. It's Got Older Still, Or Course, But Less, Comparatively, Than It Would Otherwise Have Done. It's Scored With Deep, Dry Wrinkles, The Skin Is Cracked. But My Face Hasn't Collapsed, As Some With Fine Feature Have Done. It's Kept The Same Contours, But Its Substance Has Been Laid Waste. I Have A Face Laid Waste.

When It's In A Book I Don't Think It'll Hurt Any More ...exist Any More. One Of The Things Writing Does Is Wipe Things Out. Replace Them.

He Wanted To Pay Her; He Thought Women Ought To Be Paid For Keeping Men From Dying Or Going Out Of Their Minds.