She said the reason that love is so painful is that it always amounts to two people wanting more than two people can give.

August is a wicked month.

In a way Winter is the real Spring - the time when the inner things happen, the resurgence of nature.

Books everywhere. On the shelves and on the small space above the rows of books and all along the floor and under chairs, books that I have read, books that I have not read.

Irish? In truth I would not want to be anything else. It is a state of mind as well as an actual country. It is being at odds withother nationalities, having quite different philosophy about pleasure, about punishment, about life, and about death. At least it does not leave one pusillanimous.

In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things.

literature is the last banquet between minds.