And that is ... how they are. So terribly physically all over one another. They pour themselves one over the other like so much melted butter over parsnips. They catch each other under the chin, with a tender caress of the hand, and they smile with sunny melting tenderness into each other's face.

The cruelest thing a man can do to a woman is to portray her as perfection.

The journey of love has been rather a lacerating, if well-worth-it, journey.

Away with all ideals. Let each individual act spontaneously from the forever incalculable prompting of the creative wellhead within him. There is no universal law.

No man is a man unless to his woman he is a pioneer.

A little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for everyone.

For us to go to Italy and to penetrate into Italy is like a most fascinating act of self-discovery