I just want to serve and help people and be good to everybody, only it always goes wrong somehow—I think about suicide all the time, every bloody day I want to die and stop this torture, but I go craw...
How fearful that dark shadow is when we catch sight of it in the life of another. No wonder those at whom that black arrow is aimed so often turn and flee. How unendurable it can be, the love another...
How could it be that I had actually kissed her cheek without enveloping her, without becoming her? How could I at that moment have refrained from kneeling at her feet and howling?
I know people can be awful dooms for each other.
Then the front doorbell (already too long delayed by my rambling narrative) rang.
I struggled with a nebulous work which seemed now a , now a vast novel, wherein a hero not unlike myself pursued, amid ghostly incidents, a series of reflections about life and art.
I felt so ashamed with them because everything in their life was going so well and they were so sort of successful. I couldn't talk about what I wanted with them and they were always in a hurry.
I've been so unhappy for years, so unhappy . . . I don't understand how a human being can be so unhappy all the time and still be alive.
It might be most dramatically effective to begin the tale at the moment when Arnold Baffin rang me up and said, Bradley, could you come round here please, I think I have just killed my wife.
What the cold light showed me was that my situation was simply unlivable. I wanted, with a desire greater than any desire which I had ever conceived could exist without instantly killing its owner by...
I'm not interested. I never liked him. He's some sort scoundrel.
Give yourself to these great works of art. They suffice for a lifetime.
I tried deep breathing, but seemed to lose contact with myself between each breath, so that the next one was always an emergency. I began to feel faint.
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...
Some people are just 'diminishers' and 'spoilers' for others. I suppose almost everybody diminishes someone. A saint would be nobody's spoiler.
I did not like the look of him at all. Something significantly ill-omened which I could not yet define emanated from him.
I'm not like other people, my life just doesn't work, it never has.
Only take someone's hand in a certain way, even look into their eyes in a certain way, and the world is changed forever.
And all the time my very soul would travel with her, invisible and crying soundlessly with pain. I had acquired a dimension of suffering which would poison and devour my whole being, as far as I could...
There is a kind of despair involved in creation which I am sure any artist knows all about. In art, as in morality, great things go by the board because at the crucial moment we blink our eyes. When i...
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