We'll leave now, so that this moment will remain a perfect memory...let it be our song and think of me every time you hear it.

It doesn't take long to write things of which you know nothing. When you write of actual things, it takes longer, because you have to live them first.

People always think that happiness is a faraway thing … something complicated and hard to get. Yet, what little things can make it up.

Oh time...time, pass so that I forget! Oh time, Great Healer, pass over me and let me forget.

It was the last time she’d see the river from that window. The last time of anything has the poignancy of death itself. This that I see now, she thought, to see no more this way. Oh, the last time how clearly you see everything; as though a magnifying light had been turned on it. And you grieve because you hadn’t held it tighter when you had it every day.

I came to a clear conclusion, and it is a universal one: To live, to struggle, to be in love with life--in love with all life holds, joyful or sorrowful--is fulfillment. The fullness of life is open to all of us.

You took a walk on a Sunday afternoon and came to a nice neighborhood, very refined. You saw a small one of these trees through the iron gate leading to someone's yard and you knew that soon that section of Brooklyn would get to be a tenement district. The tree knew. It came there first. Afterwards, poor foreigners seeped in and the quiet old brownstone houses were hacked up into flats, feather beds were pushed out on the window sills to air and the Tree of Heaven flourished. That was the kind of tree it was. It liked poor people.