If you love her", I said, "you'll love somebody else someday.

There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.

I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

To learn and think; to think and live; to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.

Everything in life is writable.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.