The trouble with people nowadays is they don't know how to do nothing.
Eccentrics with unseeing eyes glided through, savouring amid so much society their own particular loneliness and private sins and sorrows.
He suffers terribly all the time. He lives in fire.
You've obviously never been in love.I have actually. And . And—always—without hope—I've never had my love reciprocated ever.
He was glad that he had expressed to her, however blunderingly, what he felt. He was glad that he had held her hand.
I am, I must confess, an obsessive and superstitious letter-writer. When I am troubled I will write any long letter rather than make a telephone call. This is perhaps because I invest letters with mag...
It was her birthday. She thought, I am always unhappy on this day.
I was now, all the time, unutterably tired as if simply keeping alive was a terrible effort.
But I live, I , with an absolutely continuous sense of failure. I am always defeated, always.
He did not touch her but enjoyed the particular intimate pain of the tension between them.
A few people paused to look at him, but Londoners were by now so accustomed to 'weirdies' of all kinds that his ritual aroused little interest.
Anywhere is dangerous if you carry danger with you.
I crave for love, everybody does . . . and I've never had a bloody crumb of it—and I've given so much love to people—I can really love people, I can, I let them walk over me—but nobody's ever loved me...
I have nobody in the world. I'll kill myself. That's best. Everyone will say, It's for the best that she killed herself, she's better off dead . . . I hate myself so much I could spend hours and hours...
And she wondered now how she could go on existing through the successive moments of her life.
But whatever she was I loved her and was committed to her and had always been, here and out beyond the stars, those stars behind stars behind stars which I had seen that night when I lay on the rocks...
How easily one is hurt. Or is it only I who am so stupidly vulnerable.
I had deluded myself throughout by the idea of reviving a secret love which did not exist at all.
I said, Your brother is in bed with my wife. I added, I just took them up some wine in bed.
She was not just a wild creature, she was a wounded creature.
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