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.

Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.

without fiction, either life would be insufficient or the winds from the north would blow too cold.

Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope; it is impossible.

one should discuss one's difficulties only when they are over.

The wish to lead out one's lover must be a tribal feeling; the wish to be seen as loved is part of one's self-respect.

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.