All chances of happiness are gone from me. Just being with myself is hell all the time anyway.
I need love, I’ve never felt more in need of it than now. I feel so terribly terribly unhappy.
Eccentrics with unseeing eyes glided through, savouring amid so much society their own particular loneliness and private sins and sorrows.
And she did seem then to go to sleep instantly: the quick flight into oblivion of the chronically unhappy person.
He did not touch her but enjoyed the particular intimate pain of the tension between them.
Well, we all three loved and comforted each other. We were poorish and lonely and awkward together.
He suffers terribly all the time. He lives in fire.
I took him for a kind of buffoon. Now I see he is a devil.
And do stop sneezing. It annoys me so much when people sneeze.
People have disappointed me and deceived me and let me down.
And I thought, rolling my head to and fro between my hands in anguish, oh if only it could have worked somehow for us two.
So, in a curious lurid calm which could not last and yet, it seemed, could not end, the days went by.
We shall meet, but as strangers. It is the end of an era. A whole part of my life is torn away.
Yet on the other hand, I did manage to write, and without more than occasional repining, during my years of bondage, and I would not, as some unsatisfied writers do, blame my lack of productivity upon my lack of time.
This figure, which I had so vaguely, idly, noticed before was now utterly changed in my eyes. The whole world was its background. And between me and it there hovered, perhaps for the last time, the vision of a slim long-legged girl with gleaming thighs. I ran.
He looked so sad. I never saw him look sad before, he was always so superior, everywhere the king. You once called him a god from elsewhere who had lost his way.
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.
Everything in his life now seemed to signal: too late.
While the light remains,′ said Carde, speaking slowly in his high deliberate voice, ’only do not forsake the joy of life. If you shall have given all your kisses, you will give too few. And as leaves fall from withered wreaths which you may see spread upon the cups and floating there, so for us, who now as lovers hope for so much, perhaps tomorrow’s day will close the doom.
But I can’t do anything for him and he can’t do anything for me. We must wail in our own corners.