When His Wife Was At His Side,

You Can't Measure The Mutual Affection Of Two Human Beings By The Number Of Words They Exchange.

Biographers Know Nothing About The Intimate Sex Lives Of Their Own Wives, But They Think They Know All About Stendhal's Or Faulkner's.

Great Novels Are Always A Little More Intelligent Than Their Authors.

She Was Experiencing The Same Odd Happiness And Odd Sadness As Then. The Sadness Meant: We Are At The Last Station. The Happiness Meant: We Are Together. The Sadness Was Form, The Happiness Content. Happiness Filled The Space Of Sadness.

The Longing For Paradise Is Man's Longing Not To Be Man.