The bus roared on. I was going home in October. Everybody goes home in October.

And as far as I can see the world is too old for us to talk about it with our new words.

When the railroad trains moaned, and river-winds blew, bringing echoes through the vale, it was as if a wild hum of voices, the dear voices of everybody he had known, were crying: "Peter, Peter! Where are you going, Peter?" And a big soft gust of rain came down. He put up the collar of his jacket, and bowed his head, and hurried along.

and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear?

My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.

...do you think God made the world to amuse himself because he was bored? Because if so he would have to be mean.

We agreed to love each other madly.