People who keep journals have life twice

Knowledge of what you love somehow comes to you; you don’t have to read nor analyze nor study. If you love a thing enough, knowledge of it seeps into you, with particulars more real than any chart can furnish.

The sick soon come to understand that they live in a different world from that of the well and that the two cannot communicate.

It is the loving, not the loved, woman who feels loveable.

Memory is a magnet. It will pull to it and hold only material nature has designed it to attract.

To meet at all, one must open ones eyes to another; and there is no true conversation no matter how many words are spoken, unless the eye, unveiled and listening, opens itself to the other.

The conversation of two people remembering, if the memory is enjoyable to both, rocks on like music or lovemaking. There is a rhythm and a predictability to it that each anticipates and relishes.