in this room the hours of love still make shadows.

For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter.

If it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it.

and when love came to us twice and lied to us twice we decided to never love again that was fair fair to us and fair to love itself. we ask for no mercy or no miracles; we are strong enough to live and to die and to kill flies, attend the boxing matches, go to the racetrack, live on luck and skill, get alone, get alone often, and if you can't sleep alone be careful of the words you speak in your sleep; and ask for no mercy no miracles; and don't forget: time is meant to be wasted, love fails and death is useless.

I would certainly end up forever crying the blues into a coffee cup in a park for old men playing chess or silly games of some sort.

When you play the field selfishly everything works against you: one can’t insist on love or demand affection. you’re finally left with whatever you have been willing to give which often is: nothing.

I don’t understand people, never will. It looks like I got to travel pretty much alone.