I Try. I Fail. I Try Again.

We All Are Born Mad. Some Remain So.

Love, That Is All I Asked, A Little Love, Daily, Twice Daily, Fifty Years Of Twice Daily Love Like A Paris Horse-butcher's Regular, What Normal Woman Wants Affection?

I Could Not Have Gone Through The Awful Wretched Mess Of Life Without Having Left A Stain Upon The Silence.

Against The Charitable Gesture There Is No Defence.

Imagination At Wit's End Spreads Its Sad Wings.