The heart may think it knows better: the senses know that absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends.

Have not all poetic truths been already stated? The essence of a poetic truth is that no statement of it can be final.

Ghosts seem harder to please than we are; it is as though they haunted for haunting’s sake -- much as we relive, brood, and smoulder over our pasts.

Habit, of which passion must be wary, may all the same be the sweetest part of love.

The heart may think it knows better: the senses know that absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends.

Art, at any rate in a novel, must be indissolubly linked with craft.

All good dialogue perhaps deals with something unprecedented.