There is so much grit in the bottom of the container, almost all our natural preoccupations are low ones, and in most cases the rag-bag of consciousness is only unified by the experience of great art or of intense love. Neither of these was relevant to my messy and absent-minded goings-on.

Perhaps the reality is in the suffering. But it can't be. Love promises happiness. Art promises happiness. Yet it isn't exactly a promise . . .

I'm falling in love with you again, most terribly in love.""I've never been out of love with you, never for a second.

There's no point in talking it over. It would only make things worse. There's nothing to say. I just love you. That's all of it.""That's half of it," said Ducane. "Possibly over dinner I might tell you the other half.

I think we belong to each other.

We did really love each other . . . didn't we? Didn't we? In the name of that reality —M.

Her love for men had always been somehow neurotic and unfulfilled.

She had never been filled with her love like a calm brimming vessel. She had rather suffered it, as a tree might suffer a cold wind, and the image of a coldness was somehow mingled with her memories of marital love.

She could not bear the tenderness which a dog would evoke, she did not want the pain of another love. She knew how very much, how desperately, she would love her dog; and dogs are vulnerable and short-lived and die.