He did not touch her but enjoyed the particular intimate pain of the tension between them.
He was glad that he had expressed to her, however blunderingly, what he felt. He was glad that he had held her hand.
How easily one is hurt. Or is it only I who am so stupidly vulnerable.
I am looking out of my window in an anxious and resentful state of mind, oblivious to my surroundings, brooding perhaps on some damage done to my prestige. Then suddenly I observe a hovering kestrel....
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 feel I'm at the end of something — everything is going to be different — and terrible.That doesn't sound like you, you ride every wave.There is one that will drown me.
I had deluded myself throughout by the idea of reviving a secret love which did not exist at all.
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...
I said, Your brother is in bed with my wife. I added, I just took them up some wine in bed.
I want to be cut off from people like Marloe. Being a real person oneself is a matter of setting up limits and drawing lines and saying no. I don't want to be a nebulous bit of ectoplasm straying arou...
It was her birthday. She thought, I am always unhappy on this day.
It's not so easy.What isn't?To establish relationships, you can't just elect people, it can't be done by thinking and willing.
Most friendships are a sort of frozen and undeveloping semi-hostility.
Of course we live in dreams and by dreams, and even in a disciplined spiritual life, in some ways especially there, it is hard to distinguish dream from reality. In ordinary human affairs humble commo...
Oh my life is so awful, it's just so awful to be me, you don't know what it's like waking every morning and finding the whole horror of being yourself still there.
One can be too ingenious in trying to search out the truth. Sometimes one must simply respect its veiled face. Of course this is a love story.
Only stories and magic really endure.
She could not bear the tenderness which a dog would evoke, she did not want the pain of another love. She knew how very much, how desperately, she would love her dog; and dogs are vulnerable and short...
She was not just a wild creature, she was a wounded creature.
So was she on the side of dragons and indifferent to the fate of princesses?
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