Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice. --The Sensible Thing

Art isn't meaningless... It is in itself. It isn't in that it tries to make life less so.

Dear, don't think of getting out of bed yet. I've always suspected that early rising in early life makes one nervous.

This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children's eyes.

He found himself remembering how on one summer morning they two had started from New York in search of happiness. They had never expected to find it, perhaps, yet in itself that quest had been happier than anything he expected forevermore. Life, it seemed, must be a setting up of props around one - otherwise it was disaster. There was no rest, no quiet. He had been futile in longing to drift and dream, no one drifted except to maelstroms, no one dreamed, without his dreams becoming fantastic nightmares of indecision and regret.

It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.

You really ought to read more books - you know, those things that look like blocks but come apart on one side.