And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.
Dear, I can't write, it's all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.
Philip Larkin: Letters to Monica
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Dear, I can't write, it's all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.
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