The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
The richest love is that which submits to the arbitration of time.
It's unthinkable not to love - you'd have a severe nervous breakdown. Or you'd have to be Philip Larkin.
Who invented the human heart, I wonder? Tell me, and then show me the place where he was hanged.
Truth disappears with the telling of it.
Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.