In The End There Is No Desire

What Have We All Got To Expect That We Allow Ourselves To Be So Lined With Disappointment?

He Was Like A Child With Haemophilia: Every Contact Drew Blood.

And There, In That Phrase, The Bitterness Leaks Again Out Of My Pen. What A Dull Lifeless Quality This Bitterness Is. If I Could I Would Write With Love, But If I Could Write With Love I Would Be Another Man; I Would Never Have Lost Love.

When He Was Young, He Had Thought Love Had Something To Do With Understanding, But With Age He Knew That No Human Being Understood Another. Love Was The Wish To Understand, And Presently With Constant Failure The Wish Died, And Love Died Too Perhaps Or Changed Into This Painful Affection, Loyalty, Pity.

I Refused To Believe That Love Could Take Any Other Form Than Mine: I Measured Love By The Extent Of My Jealousy, And By That Standard Of Course She Could Not Love Me At All.