The talk of lovers who have just declared their love is one of life's most sweet delights. Each vies with the other in humility, in amazement at being so valued. The past is searched for the first signs and each one is in haste to declare all that he is so that no part of his being escapes the hallowing touch.

There is no substitute for the comfort supplied by the utterly taken-for-granted relationship.

Socrates wrote nothing. Christ wrote nothing.

One should go easy on smashing other people's lies. Better to concentrate on one's own.

Most of our love is shabby stuff, but there is always a thin line of gold, the bit of pure love on which all the rest depends -- and which redeems all the rest.

Literature could be said to be a sort of disciplined technique for arousing certain emotions.

My heart was beating like an army on the march.