Then you will have to trust me. Beyond logic, beyond reason, beyond hope, trust me.

I do not want to choose which one of you I must love or hate. Here, I am free to do neither. I want no part of your bitterness.

Men see what they are most afraid of.

All I wanted, even when I hated you most, was some poor, barren, parched excuse to love you. But you only gave me riddles.

Only yesterday a young woman came to me wanting a trap set for a man with a sweet smile and lithe arms. She was a fool, not for wanting him, but for wanting more of him than that.

Love is an obsolete emotion, ranking in usefulness somewhere between earwigs and toe mold.

It’s an odd thing, happiness. Some people take happiness from gold. Or black pearls. And some of us, far more fortunate, take their happiness from periwinkles.