"What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?"

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I think we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid, and that what takes place is a continual evasion, desperate rearguard attempts to keep ourselves to ourselves. Communication is too alarming. To enter into someone else's life is too frightening. To disclose to others the poverty within us is too fearsome a possibility.

— Harold Pinter