I gave up visiting my psychoanalyst because he was meddling too much in my private life.

Physical beauty is passing - a transitory possession - but beauty of the mind, richness of the spirit, tenderness of the heart - I have all these things - aren't taken away but grow! Increase with the years!

I try to work every day because you have no refuge but writing. When you're going through a period of unhappiness, a broken love affair, the death of someone you love, or some other disorder in your life, then you have no refuge but writing.

Nobody sees anybody truly, but all through the flaws of their own ego.

We are all sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life.

In memory everything seems to happen to music.

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.