if one really does try to find out why it is that people don't leave each other, one discovers a mystery. It is because they can't; they are bound. And nobody on earth knows what are the bonds that bind them except those two.

I must say, I hate money. But it's the lack of it I hate most.

I am poor - obscure - just eighteen years of age - with a rapacious appetite for everything and principles as light as my purse.

Can one do nothing for the dead? And for a long time the answer had been - Nothing!

To long for everything: sorrow; to accept everything: joy.

I always felt that the great high privilege, relief and comfort of friendship was that one had to explain nothing.

Ach, Tchekov! Why are you dead? Why can’t I talk to you in a big darkish room at late evening—where the light is green from the waving trees outside? I’d like to write a series of Heavens: that would be one.