Recollection is not something that I can summon up, it simply comes and I am the servant of it.

Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.

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

Wherever there were horses or ponies the mushrooms always sprang up.

Writers really live in the mind and in hotels of the soul.

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

I know the mistake I am making. I see the exits in life.