Only two things are real to me: my love and my death. In between them, I merely exist as a scatter of senses.

Young people are careless of their virginity; one day they may have it and the next not.

Only two things are real to me: my love and my death. In between them, I merely exist as a scatter of senses.

It is best as one grows older to strip oneself of possessions, to shed oneself downward like a tree, to be almost wholly earth before one dies.

I have an idea that conscience impedes quite as many merits as faults, is a sort of alloy, a nickel which may prevent silver from bending but also prevents it from shining.

I do apologize for writing by hand - and so badly. I shall soon be like Helen Thomas, notoriously illegible. In her last letter only two words stood out plain: 'Blood pressure.' Subsequent research demonstrated that what she had actually written was 'Beloved friends.

For the last six weeks I have found myself pestered by some characters in search of an author.