He was glad that he had expressed to her, however blunderingly, what he felt. He was glad that he had held her hand.
I adore your jealousy, especially when it's so misplaced. I expect Shakespeare wrote a sonnet about that.
Eccentrics with unseeing eyes glided through, savouring amid so much society their own particular loneliness and private sins and sorrows.
Bellamy found simply a task of amazing difficulty. It was as if ordinary human life were a mobile machine full of holes, crannies, spaces, apertures, fissures, cavities, lairs, into one of which Bell...
You've obviously never been in love.I have actually. And . And—always—without hope—I've never had my love reciprocated ever.
It was her birthday. She thought, I am always unhappy on this day.
Let me sleep at last. I've had misery enough in my life. You said there was nowhere to go to. There is death to go to. I've had misery enough in my life.
I was now, all the time, unutterably tired as if simply keeping alive was a terrible effort.
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.
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...
She was not just a wild creature, she was a wounded creature.
But I live, I , with an absolutely continuous sense of failure. I am always defeated, always.
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...
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...
And she wondered now how she could go on existing through the successive moments of her life.
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...
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 shall not attempt here to describe my marriage. Some impression of it will doubtless emerge. For the present story, its general nature rather than its detail is important. It was not a success. At f...