So much of life [is] a putting-off of unhappiness for another time. Nothing [is] ever lost by delay.

Failure too is a form of death.

And there, in that phrase, the bitterness leaks again out of my pen. What a dull lifeless quality this bitterness is. If I could I would write with love, but if I could write with love I would be another man; I would never have lost love.

I measured love by the extent of my jealousy.

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. Even if we have the happy chance to fall in love, it is because we have been conditioned by what we have read, and if I had never known love at all, perhaps it was because my father's library had not contained the right books.

A brain is only capable of what it could conceive, andit couldnt concieve what it hasnt experienced

love had turned into "love affair" with a begining and an end.