Love was like that, like a dream you didn't quite understand, one in which you didn't necessarily know what you were looking at until it was right in front of you.

Sometimes words drew blood, they cut your tongue, they made you know things you couldn't unknow.

Some things, when they change, never do return to the way they once were. Butterflies for instance, and women who've been in love with the wrong man too often.

Love is worth the sum of itself, and nothing more.

I read "The Group" by Mary McCarthy. It had tons of sex in it, or so I thought at the time.

The weak are cruel. The strong have no need to be.

Young people believe that regret is something you will never feel if you simply do as you please, but sometimes it is a matter of degree.