In the end, I wonder if the true movement of the world might not be a voice raised in song.

To beauty, all is forgiven, even vulgarity. Intelligence no longer seems an adequate compensation for things.

A man who farts in bed . . . is a man who loves life.

This morning I understand what it means to die: when we disappear, it is the others who die for us, for here I am, lying on a cold pavement and it is not the dying I care about; it has no more meaning this morning that it did yesterday. But never again will I see those I love, and if that is what dying is about then it really is the tragedy they say it is.

Just as teardrops, when they are large and round and compassionate, can leave a long strand washed clean of discord, the summer rain as it washes away the motionless dust can bring to a person's soul something like endless breathing.

What is an aristocrat? A woman who is never sullied by vulgarity, although she may be surrounded by it.

I know that they're all unhappy because nobody loves the right person the way they should and because they don't understand that it's really their own self that they're mad at.