We have really no absent friends.

Jealousy is no more than feeling alone against smiling enemies.

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

Childish fantasy, like the sheath over the bud, not only protects but curbs the terrible budding spirit, protects not only innocence from the world, but the world from the power of innocence.

Who is ever adequate? We all create situations each other can't live up to, then break our hearts at them because they don't.

Art is one thing that can go on mattering once it has stopped hurting.

In 'real life' everything is diluted; in the novel everything is condensed.