Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got them all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity.

That's all a writer has to write about - what he sees and hears and what not.

Never love a wild thing...If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky.

I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true.

You don't run out on people; you run out on yourself.

Did you ever, in that wonderland wilderness of adolesence [sic] ever, quite unexpectedly, see something, a dusk sky, a wild bird, a landscape, so exquisite terror touched you at the bone? And you are afraid, terribly afraid the smallest movement, a leaf, say, turning in the wind, will shatter all? That is, I think, the way love is, or should be: one lives in beautiful terror.

She was a triumph over ugliness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it contains paradox.