Our Inventions Mirror Our Secret Wishes.

A Diary Is The Last Place To Go If You Wish To Seek The Truth About A Person. Nobody Dares To Make The Final Confession To Themselves On Paper: Or At Least, Not About Love.

I Am Quite Alone. I Am Neither Happy Nor Unhappy; I Lie Suspended Like A Hair Or A Feather In The Cloudy Mixtures Of Memory.

Let Us Define 'man' As A Poet Perpetually Conspiring Against Himself.

A Critic Is A Lug-worm In The Liver Of Literature.

I Have Decided To Leave Clea’s Last Letter Un-answered. I No Longer Wish To Coerce Anyone, To Make Promises, To Think Of Life In Terms Of Compacts, Resolutions, Covenants. It Will Be Up To Clea To Interpret My Silence According To Her Own Needs And Desires, To Come To Me If She Has Need Or Not, As The Case May Be. Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?