He had stylized himself--life was easier that way. He had chosen a physical mould just as writer chooses a technical form.

If I stopped loving Him, I would cease to believe in His love. If I loved God, then I would believe in His love for me. It's not enough to need it. We have to love first, and I don't know how. But I need it, how I need it.

She had lost all our memories for ever, and it was as though by dying she had robbed me of part of myself. I was losing my individuality. It was the first stage of my own death, the memories dropping off like gangrened limbs.

He felt the loyalty we feel to unhappiness - the sense that is where we really belong.

Lust is not the worst thing. It is because any day, any time, lust may turn into love that we have to avoid it. And when we love our sin then we are damned indeed.

Indifference and pride look very much alike, and he probably thought I was proud.

Like some wines our love could neither mature nor travel.