He never wanted to be away from her. She had the spark of life.

There was a danger whenever I was on home ground. It was the danger of seeing my life through other eyes than my own. Seeing it as an ever-increasing roll of words like barbed wire, intricate, bewildering, uncomforting—set against the rich productions, the food, flowers, and knitted garments, of other women’s domesticity. It became harder to say that it was worth the trouble.

I never have a problem with finding material. I wait for it to turn up, and it always turns up. It’s dealing with the material I’m inundated with that poses the problem.

The skin of everyday appearances stretched over such shamelessness, such consuming explosions of lust.

Moments of kindness and reconciliation are worth having, even if the parting has to come sooner or later.

One drop of hatred in your soul will spread and discolor everything like a drop of black ink in white milk.

And now such a warm commotion, such busy love.