Of all the things that human beings did together, the sexual act was the one with the most various of reasons.
What was so terrible about grief was not grief itself, but that one got over it.
Perfect love may cast our fear, but fear is remarkably potent in casting out love.
Human kindness is like a defective tap, the first gush may be impressive but the stream soon dries up.
Most of my life I have needed more time to be on my own.
People were excited by violence. What, after all, was the sexual act but a voluntarily endured assault, a momentary death?