He was jealous of her future, and she of his past.

There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.

I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously.

Strange, isn't it, that no chemical will give a human being the iridescence that illusions have given them? Give me your hat.

You don't find love, it finds you. It's got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars.

I'm sick of my own romanticism!

The way to recognize a dead word is that it exudes boredom.