The point is, life has to be endured, and lived. But how to live it is the problem.
I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.
Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality.
I wondered why it was that places are so much lovelier when one is alone.
Women want love to be a novel, men a short story.
We are all ghosts of yesterday, and the phantom of tomorrow awaits us alike in sunshine or in shadow, dimly perceived at times, never entirely lost.