You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known—and even that is an understatement.

You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is where we are not... No one person in the world is necessary to you or to me.

I just couldn't make the grade as a hack-that, like everything else, requires a certain practiced excellence.

When Vanity kissed Vanity, a hundred happy Junes ago, he pondered o'er her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever know, he rhymed her eyes with life and death: "Thru Time I'll save my love!" he said. . . yet Beauty vanished with his breath, and, with her lovers, she was dead. . . -Ever his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair: "Who'd learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his sonnet there". . . So all my words, however true, might sing you to a thousandth June, and no one ever know that you were Beauty for an afternoon.

I don't much care where I am anymore, nor expect very much from places.

Long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more.

Everything that begins, begins with blood.