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.

At fourteen you don't need sickness or death for tragedy.

A religious awakening which does not awaken the sleeper to love has roused him in vain.

The West is color. Its colors are animal rather than vegetable, the colors of earth and sunlight and ripeness.

The emotion, the ecstasy of love, we all want, but God spare us the responsibility.

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.

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.