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

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.

Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.

In every question and every remark tossed back and forth between lovers who have not played out the last fugue, there is one question and it is this: Is there someone new?

I always want to be in love, always. It's like being a tuning fork.

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

Irish Catholicism is very much founded on the stone of fear and of punishment.