I'm tired and I'm sick to death of being without you.

At one with the One, it didn't mean a thing besides a glass of Guinness on a sunny day.

One's life is more formed, I sometimes think, by books than by human beings: it is out of books one learns about love and pain at second hand.

Destruction after all is a form of creation.

We never get accustomed to being less important to other people than they are to us.

We'd forgive most things if we knew the facts.

It's strange how the human mind swings back and forth, from one extreme to another. Does truth lie at some point of the pendulum's swing, at a point where it never rests, not in the dull perpendicular mean where it dangles in the end like a windless flag, but at an angle, nearer one extreme than another? If only a miracle could stop the pendulum at an angle of sixty degrees, one would believe the truth was there.