I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.

It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.

The memory of man is as old as misfortune

It’s only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness.

Odd, isn't it? He really was the right man for her in a sort of way; but then as you know, it is a law of love that the so-called 'right' person always comes to soon or too late.

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

What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?