There Are Two Kinds Of Hangover: In

He Was One Of The Most Supremely Stupid Men I Have Ever Met. He Taught Me A Great Deal.

Ask Me To Marry You." "will You Marry Me?" "no.

It Came To Me…that I Didn’t Want To Be Anywhere Else In The World At That Moment, That What I Was Feeling At That Moment Justified All I Had Been Through, Because All I Had Been Through Was My Being There. I Was Experiencing…a New Self-acceptance, A Sense That I Had To Be This Mind And This Body, Its Vices And Its Virtues, And That I Had No Other Chance Or Choice.

I Am One In A Row Of Specimens. It's When I Try To Flutter Out Of Line That He Hates Me. I'm Meant To Be Dead, Pinned, Always The Same, Always Beautiful. He Knows That Part Of My Beauty Is Being Alive. But It's The Dead Me He Wants. He Wants Me Living-but-dead.

In Some Mysterious Way Woods Have Never Seemed To Me To Be Static Things. In Physical Terms, I Move Through Them; Yet In Metaphysical Ones, They Seem To Move Through Me.