Happiness must exist. It can’t all be made of pain. But what is happiness made of?
She had never been filled with her love like a calm brimming vessel. She had rather suffered it, as a tree might suffer a cold wind, and the image of a coldness was somehow mingled with her memories of marital love.
We all love a glimpse of Lucas, it’s a religious experience.
Oh, all right, perhaps it wasn’t all your fault, I was just doomed from the start.
With a fluency that amazed me lies and treachery streamed from my lips. I was in extreme pain.
Jealousy lasts forever. Bad news for the young.
Only let the scene end soon and without any horrors.
I lit another cigarette and wondered distantly how I would get through the day. It was a problem demanding some ingenuity.
Mary did not believe in analysing herself, and she had left vague the notion that sometimes came to her that this anxious unfulfilled sort of loving was the only kind of which she was capable.
The morning brought the crisis of my life. But it was not anything that I could have conceived of in my wildest imaginings.
To find someone – oh yes – that is the problem. To have mutual love, that is so difficult indeed.
I feel I’m living on pain, riding on it, like a sea.
Everyone seemed to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed except me.
She thought sadly, gaiety and laughter are not in my destiny.
And so my life has become tiny and mean and incomplete and I must begin it again without comfort and without magic.
And what is love anyway? Love’s all over the mountain where the beautiful go to die no doubt, but I cannot attach much meaning to your idea of such a long-lasting love for someone you lost sight of so long ago. Perhaps it’s something you’ve invented now.
Desperate for help, living his life now as a hideous dream, he had told nobody.
Willy seemed like an inhabitant of some other dimension who could only tenuously communicate with the ordinary world. This would have troubled her less if she had not imagined his other dimension as a place of horror.
He had always thought of himself as a muddler, a sufferer, a victim.
Every night is an imitation of death. Without that I would have killed myself long ago.’ She.