Whenever I prepare for a journey I prepare as though for death. Should I never return, all is in order.
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.
You are a Queen. Let mine be the joy of giving you your kingdom.
Who is to decide between 'Let it be' and 'Force it'?
You might drop your heart into me and you'd never hear it touch bottom.
Every time one leaves anywhere, something precious, which ought not to be killed, is left to die.