Love Lasts About Seven Years. That's How

For This Was The Round Of Love: Fear Which Leads On Desire, Tenderness And Fury, And That Brutal Anguish Which Triumphantly Follows Pleasure.

Every Little Girl Knows About Love. It Is Only Her Capacity To Suffer Because Of It That Increases.

I Recognize Limitations In The Sense That I've Read Tolstoy And Dostoyevsky And Shakespeare . . . Aside From That I Don't Think Of Limiting Myself.

A Strange Melancholy Pervades Me To Which I Hesitate To Give The Grave And Beautiful Name Of Sorrow. The Idea Of Sorrow Has Always Appealed To Me But Now I Am Almost Ashamed Of It's Complete Egoism. I Have Known Boredom, Regret, And Occasionally Remorse, But Never Sorrow. Today It Envelops Me Like A Silken Web, Enervating And Soft, And Sets Me Apart From Everybody Else.

What You Call Types Of Mind Are Only Mental Ages.