attempting to find in motion what was lost in space.

When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness.

The scene is memory and is therefore nonrealistic. Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart.

If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.

The nervous system of any age or nation is its creative workers, its artists. And if that nervous system is profoundly disturbed by its environment, the work it produces will inescapably reflect the disturbances, sometimes obliquely and sometimes with violent directness.

Nothing's more determined than a cat on a hot tin roof.