She took kisses like so many coats of paint […] how long and how vainly I searched for excuses which might make her amorality if not palatable at lest understandable. I realize now the time I wasted in this way; instead of enjoying her and turning aside from these preoccupations with the thought, ‘She is untrustworthy as she is beautiful. She takes love as plants do water, lightly, thoughtlessly.

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

To write a poem is like trying to catch a lizard without its tail falling off.

The memory of man is as old as misfortune

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.

We are all hunting for rational reasons for believing in the absurd.

No one can go on being a rebel too long without turning into an autocrat.