Sorrow is implicit in love as gravitation is implicit in mass.

Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.

Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?

The artist's work constitutes the only satisfactory relationship he can have with his fellow men since he seeks his real friends among the dead and the unborn.

Lovers can find nothing to say to each other that has not been said and unsaid a thousand times over. Kisses were invented to translate such nothings into wounds

Whatever the heart desires, it purchases at the cost of soul

How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.