I have tried," I said, "but he does not believe me. It is too late for that now" (it is always too late for truth, I thought).

You imagine the carefully pruned, shaped thing that is presented to you is truth. That is just what it isn't. The truth is improbable, the truth is fantastic; it's in what you think is a distorting mirror that you see the truth.

Love was a terrible thing. You poisoned it and stabbed at it and knocked it down into the mud - well down - and it got up and staggered on, bleeding and muddy and awful. Like - like Rasputin.

I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.

Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.

I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.

When he talked his eyes went away from mine and then he forced himself to look straight at me and he began to explain and I knew that he felt very strange with me and that he hated me, and it was funny sitting there and talking like that, knowing he hated me.