The truth is how you say it, and to be 'one's self' is the most shocking custom of all.

Why is it that whenever I hear music I think I’m a bride?

“God,” she cried, “what is love? Man seeking his own head? The human head, so rented by misery that even the teeth weigh! She couldn't tell me the truth because she had never planned it; her life was a continual accident, and how can you be prepared for that? Everything we can't bear in this world, some day we find in one person, and love it all at once.”

The truth is how you say it, and to be 'one's self' is the most shocking custom of all.

I talk too much because I have been made so miserable by what you are keeping hushed.

One cup poured into another makes different waters; tears shed by one eye would blind if wept into another's eye. The breast we strike in joy is not the breast we strike in pain; any man's smile would be consternation on another's mouth.

There's something evil in me that loves evil and degradation--purity's black backside! That loves honesty with a horrid love; or why have I always gone seeking it at the liar's door?