A dreamer, I walked enchanted, and nothing held me back.
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.
Life was a series of greetings and farewells, one was always saying good-bye to something, to someone.
When one is writing a novel in the first person, one must be that person.
A bad workman blames his tools.
Dead men tell no tales, Mary.