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

O God, You've done enough, You've robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone for ever.

I'm only saying I want you to be happy. I hate your being unhappy. I don't mind anything you do that makes you happy." You just want an excuse. If I sleep with anybody else, you feel you can do the same - any time." That's neither here nor there. I want you to be happy, that's all." You'd make my bed for me?" Perhaps.

When I replied that I loved her too in that way, I was the liar, not she, for I never lose the consciousness of time: to me the present is never here: it is always last year or next week.

One has no talent. I have no talent. It's just a question of working, of being willing to put in the time.

Perhaps the comparison is closer to the Chinese cook who leaves hardly any part of a duck unserved.

What have we all got to expect that we allow ourselves to be so lined with disappointment?