Jealousy is no more than feeling alone against smiling enemies.

Sacrificers are not the ones to pity. The ones to pity are those they sacrifice.

Every love has a poetic relevance of its own; each love brings to light only what to it is relevant. Outside lies the junk-yard of what does not matter.

Love of privacy - perhaps because of the increasing exactions of society - has become in many people almost pathological.

Good-byes breed a sort of distaste for whomever you say good-bye to; this hurts, you feel, this must not happen again.

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

Autumn arrives in the early morning.