Self-hate is rarely unconditional.

“this empty act could no more be mistaken for a mother's touch than the wind tha…”

“I suppose memory has at least two faces, and capricious ones at that.”

“Looking back now, there's something that bothers me abut the newspaper article …”

“Things don't go away. They become you. There is no end, as T.S. Eliot somewhere…”