There Is Always The Other Side, Always.

Now I No Longer Wish To Be Loved, Beautiful, Happy Or Successful. I Want One Thing And One Thing Only - To Be Left Alone.

She’ll Have No Lover, For I Don’t Want Her And She’ll See No Other.

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.

But Why Do You Want To Talk To Me?' He Is Going To Say: 'because You Look So Kind,' Or 'because You Look So Beautiful And Kind,' Or, Subtly, 'because You Look As If You'll Understand....' He Says: 'because I Think You Won't Betray Me.' I Had Meant To Get This Mean To Talk To Me And Tell Me All About It, And Then Be So Devastatingly English That Perhaps I Should Manage To Hurt Him A Little In Return For All The Many Times I've Been Hurt.... 'because I Think You Won't Betray Me, Because I Think You Won't Betray Me....' Now It Won't Be So Easy.

I Didn't Know, I Didn't Know, I Didn't Know.