I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.
Let me go to hell, that’s all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.
The tears of the world are a constant quality. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.
Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile… a stain upon the silence.
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