You can evade life, but you can not evade Death.

I do not believe that any writer has ever exposed this bovarysme, the human will to see things as they are not, more clearly than Shakespeare.

Success is relative. It is what we make of the mess we have made of things.

You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; They called me the hyacinth girl.' —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Od' und leer das Meer.

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison.

My greatest trouble is getting the curtain up and down.

Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair-