Don’t you think I was made for you? I feel like you had me ordered – and I was delivered to you – to be worn. I want you to wear me, like a watch-charm or a buttonhole bouquet.
By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future.
Women sometimes seem to share a quiet, unalterable dogma of persecution that endows even the most sophisticated of them with the inarticulate poignancy of the peasant.
