Things have a way of turning out so badly.

Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going.

Hell is yourself and the only redemption is when a person puts himself aside to feel deeply for another person.

The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass.

Snatching the eternal out of the desperately fleeting is the great magic trick of human existence.

I don't believe in villains or heroes, only in right or wrong ways that individuals are taken, not by choice, but by necessity or by certain still uncomprehended influences in themselves, their circumstances and their antecedents.

These are the intensities that one cannot live with, that he has to outgrow if he wants to survive. But who can help grieving for them? If the blood vessels could hold them, how much better to keep those early loves with us?