She Was Lost In Her Longing To

The More Transparent The Writing, The More Visible The Poetry.

Both Looked Back Then On The Wild Revelry...and They Lamented That It Had Cost Them So Much Of Their Lives To Find The Paradise Of Shared Solitude.

I Would Like For My Books To Have Been Recognized Posthumously, At Least In Capitalist Countries, Where They Turn You Into A Kind Of Merchandise.

When I Stand And Contemplate My Fate And See The Path Along Which You Have Led Me, I Reach My End, For Artless I Surrendered To One Who Is My Undoing And My End.

But That Afternoon He Asked Himself, With His Infinite Capacity For Illusion, If Such Pitiless Indifference Might Not Be A Subterfuge For Hiding The Torments Of Love.