Life, after all, was a secret with the self. The more one gave out, the less there remained for the center--that center which she coveted for herself and recognized instantly in others. Fruits had it, the very heart of, say, a cherry, where the true worth and flavor lay. Some of course were flawed or hollow in there. Many, in fact.

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.

Ideally I'd like to spend two evenings a week talking to Proust and another conversing with the Holy Ghost.

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

I was lonelier than I should be, for a woman in love, or half in love.

The vote means nothing to women. We should be armed.

After that dark woman you search for someone who will fit into the irregular corners of your heart.