In Switzerland they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock!

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

I had committed myself: without love I'd have to go through the gestures of love.

They haven't left us much to believe, have they? — even disbelief. I can't believe in anything bigger than a home, or anything vaguer than a human being.

There was a tacit understanding between them that 'liquor helped'; growing more miserable with every glass one hoped for the moment of relief.

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

Pain is easy to write. In pain we're all happily individual. But what can one write about happiness?