What a subtle, treacherous thing it was to let yourself go that way! Because once you've started it was terribly difficult to stop; soon you were saying "I'm sorry, of course you're right", and "Whatever you think is best", and "you're the most wonderful and valuable thing int he world", and the next thing you knew all honesty, all truth, was as far away and glimmering, as hopelessly unattainable as the world of the golden people.

Anybody's marriage might benefit from an occasional embargo on talk.

Dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn't much different, finally, from any other kind of dying.

Every man has a right to keep his own sentiments if he pleases.

Acting might bring on emotional exhaustion, but writing tired your brains out. Writing led to depression and insomnia and walking around all day with a haggard look.

And do you know a funny thing? I'm almost fifty years old and I've never understood anything in my whole life.

Know what we did, Lucy? You and me? We spent our whole lives yearning. Isn't that the God damndest thing?