I feel half faded away like some figure in the background of an old picture.

In almost every marriage there is a selfish and an unselfish partner. A pattern is set up and soon becomes inflexible, of one person always making the demands and one person always giving way.

Art is a kind of artificial memory and the pain which attends all serious art is a sense of that factitiousness.

Socrates wrote nothing. Christ wrote nothing.

One doesn't have to get anywhere in a marriage. It's not a public conveyance.

Happiness is a matter of one's most ordinary everyday mode of consciousness being busy and lively and unconcerned with self.

Love is the perception of individuals. Love is the extremely difficult realisation that something other than oneself is real.