We are homesick most for the places we have never known.

The value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

The memories of childhood have a strange shuttling quality, and areas of darkness ring the spaces of light. The memories of childhood are like clear candles in an acre of night, illuminating fixed scenes from surrounding darkness.

We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.

There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries.

I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.

How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?