Nostalgia paints a smile on the stony face of the past.
If I could do my life over, I would try to cleanse at least my pleasures of self-pity.
Reality is the name we give to our disappointments.
I seldom remember my father, but I sneeze and rub my nose the way he did. I also love my son with grief and anger, as he did.
When my beloved arrives, I yawn. When my beloved departs, I weep.
Change often makes accepted customs into crimes.