I'm only really alive when I'm writing.
A man, when he burns, leaves only a handful of ashes. No woman can hold him. The wind must blow him away.
Morning can always be counted on to bring us back to a more realistic level.
All cruel people describe themselves as paragons of frankness.
It is, perhaps more than anything else, the arrest of time which has taken place in a completed work of art that gives certain plays their feeling of depth and significance.
But there are things that happen between a man and a woman in the dark -- that sort of make everything else seem -- unimportant.