The dead live." "How do they live?" "By love.

Forgetting’s not something you do, it happens to you. Only it didn’t happen to me.

That was the tragedy. Not that one man had the courage to be evil. But that millions had not the courage to be good.

You wish to be liked. I wish simply to be. One day you will know what that means, perhaps. And you will smile. Not against me. But with me.

Edith Sitwell's interest in art was largely confined to portraits of herself.

It's like the day you realize dolls are dolls. I pick up my old self and I see it's silly. A toy I've played with too often. It's a little sad, like an old golliwog at the bottom of the cupboard. Innocent and used-up and proud and silly.

...all cynicism masks a failure to cope.