No one will ever make your movie. They will only make their movie.

I glanced out the window at the signs of spring. The sky was almost blue, the trees were almost budding, the sun was almost bright.

Happiness when sustained too long in print can rightly be construed as sappiness.

She wrote poetry constantly; that was her "work". She was a slow bleeder and she slaved over it for long, exhausting hours, and many a middle of a night I could hear her creaking around the dead house with a pen in one hand, a clipboard and a flashlight in the other, refining her poems, jotting down the lines of a conceit. Writing never came easy for her; it gave her calluses. She never courted the muses, she wrestled them, mauled them all over the house and came up, after weeks of peripatetic labor, with a slim Spencerian sonnet, fourteen lines of imagistic jabberwocky.

Happiness, it has been observed, is best achieved by those who have been most unhappy heretofore.

No one will ever make your movie. They will only make their movie.