There may be good, but there are no pleasant marriages.

We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.

Isn't it time that these most ancient sorrows of ours grew fruitful? Time that we tenderly loosed ourselves from the loved one, and, unsteadily, survived: the way the arrow, suddenly all vector, survives the string to be more than itself. For abiding is nowhere.

As the arrow endures the string, and in the gathering momentum becomes more than itself. Because to stay is to be nowhere.

To be here is immense.

If no one else, the dying must notice how unreal, how full of pretense, is all that we accomplish here, where nothing is allowed to be itself.

Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing so little to be reached as with criticism.