Mortified At The Speed With Which Intimacy

The Sad Fact Is That I Love Dickens And Donne And Keats And Eliot And Forster And Conrad And Fitzgerald And Kafka And Wilde And Orwell And Waugh And Marvell And Greene And Sterne And Shakespeare And Webster And Swift And Yeats And Joyce And Hardy, Really, Really Love Them. It’s Just That They Don’t Love Me Back.

He's A Better Person When She's Around, And Isn't That What Friends Are For, To Raise You Up And Keep You At Your Best?

I Think Probably I'm Quite Sentimental; I Like Big Emotional Stories, I Like Being Moved By Things, But I Think I'm Very Embarrassed By Sentiment. I'm Very Embarrassed By Corniness.

She Shouldn't Speak Her Thoughts; Nothing Good Ever Came Of Speaking Your Thoughts.

Emma Was A Shocking Driver, Simultaneously Sloppy And Petrified, And For The First Fifty Miles Had Been Absent-mindedly Driving With Her Spectacles On Top Of Her Contact Lenses So That Other Traffic Loomed Menacingly Out Of Nowhere Like Alien Space Cruisers.