Dead news like dead love has no phoenix in its ashes.

Let this serve as an axiom to every lover: A woman who refuses lunch refuses everything.

An only child is never twelve.

Why do birds sing in the morning? It's the triumphant shout: 'We got through another night!'

Marriage. The beginning and the end are wonderful. But the middle part is hell.

It's not till sex has died out between a man and a woman that they can really love. And now I mean affection. Now I mean to be fond of (as one is fond of oneself) --to hope, to be disappointed, to live inside the other heart.

In marriage there are no manners to keep up, and beneath the wildest accusations no real criticism. Each is familiar with that ancient child in the other who may erupt again. We are not ridiculous to ourselves. We are ageless. That is the luxury of the wedding ring.