People bring to what they see and feel, the inner weather of their souls and complexion of their minds.

Strange are the ways of history, where no single thing abides, but all things flow into each other, fragment to fragment clinging.

No single crisis shapes a generation; but a succession of events, each one bringing its shaping blows to bear.

And there is not anything in the world stronger than tenderness.

It is the illusion of all lovers to think themselves unique and their words immortal.

I really can't hate more than 5 or 10 years. Wouldn't it be terrible to be always burdened with those primary emotions you had at one time?

Sadness is so ungrateful.