Tell me your past, my beloved, for a man is his past, and is to be known by it.

A woman is a branchy tree and man a singing wind; and from her branches carelessly he takes what he can find.

Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect. There are lumps in it.

Let the past be content with itself, for man needs forgetfulness as well as memory

Tell me your past, my beloved, for a man is his past, and is to be known by it.

It is by love alone that we understand anything

Women and birds are able to see without turning their heads, and that is indeed a necessary provision for they are both surrounded by enemies.