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She said, ‘I would rather die.’ ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘of course. That goes without saying. But we have to go on living.’
You cannot control what you love—you watch it driving recklessly towards the broken bridge, the torn-up track, the horror of seventy years ahead. He
The usually happy and the always unhappy one watched the night thicken from the bed with distrust.
White hair, a white stubbly beard, and hands brown and fragile as last year’s leaves,
He knew he was in the grip of the unforgivable sin, despair.
