I Have Such A Horror Of Telegrams

I Feel I Must Live Alone, Alone, Alone - With Artists Only To Touch The Door. Every Artist Cuts Off His Ear And Nails It On The Outside Of The Door For The Others To Shout Into.

The Late Evening Is The Time Of Times. Then With That Unearthly Beauty Before One It Is Not Hard To Realise How Far One Has To Go. To Write Something That Will Be Worthy Of That Rising Moon, That Pale Light.

No, No The Mind I Love Must Still Have Wild Places - A Tangled Orchard Where Dark Damsons Drop In The Heavy Grass, An Overgrown Litde Wood, The Chance Of A Snake Or Two (real Snakes), A Pool That Nobody's Fathomed The Depth Of, And Paths Threaded With Those Litde Flowers Planted By The Wind.

There Are Always These Moments In Life When The Limits Of Suffering Are Reached And We Become Heroes And Heroines.

The Truth Is Friendship Is Every Bit As Sacred And Eternal As Marriage.