Love is everything it's cracked up to be. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for.

Each artist or writer who works in Venice comes to believe that the city yields its most special secret to him or her alone.

Isn't that the problem? That women have been swindled for centuries into substituting adornment for love, fashion (as it were) for passion?

If you apologize for something that isn't your fault in the first place, you, in effect, confirm their belief that it is your fault.

Writing has often been accompanied by terror, silences, and then wild bursts of private laughter that suddenly make all the dread seem worthwhile.

What is the fatal charm of Italy? What do we find there that can be found nowhere else? I believe it is a certain permission to be human, which other places, other countries, lost long ago.

Don't ye know that ev'ry Soul on Earth feels itself to be an Orphan?