Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must.

In the woods where snow is thick, bars of sunlight lay like pale fire.

It is strange that there are times when I feel the stars are not at all solemn: they are secretly gay.

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

Why it should be such an effort to write to the people one loves I can't imagine. It's none at all to write to those who don't really count.

Regret is an appalling waste of energy, and no one who intends to be a writer can afford to indulge in it.

Do the hardest thing on earth for you. ACT YOURSELF.