You know that fiction, prose rather, is possibly the roughest trade of >>
You write a book like that you're fond of over the years, then you see >>
All our words from loose using have lost their edge. >>
Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him b >>
If one had to worry about one's actions in respect of other people's i >>
One can no longer live with people: it is too hideous and nauseating. >>
The only thing that could spoil a day was people. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.