What we forgot as children is that our parents are children, also. The child in them has not been satisfied or met or loved, often.

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.

I am not kind, I cut people off as with shears and I drop them like nettles.

shadows of love, inebriations of love, foretastes of love, trickles of love, but never yet the one true love.

Sometimes one word can recall a whole span of life.

Movie people are possessed by demons, but a very low form of demons.

There was I, devouring books and yet allowing a man who had never read a book to walk me home for a bit of harmless fumbling on the front steps.