The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.

We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench

The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.

All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.

Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.

Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?