It takes a little time, but the pleasures of cooking begin before the pleasures of the palate, and preparing means anticipating.

I could work in the shower if I had plastic paper.

The United States needed a civil war to unite properly.

The Art of the Romance, though warning us that it is providing fictions, opens a door into the Palace of Absurdity, and when we have lightly stepped inside, slams it shut behind us.

Is it worth it to be born if you cannot remember it later? And, technically speaking, had I ever been born? Other people, of course, said that I was. As far as I know, I was born in late April, at sixty years of age, in a hospital room.

What is love? There is nothing in the world, neither man nor Devil nor any thing, that I hold as suspect as love, for it penetrates the soul more than any other thing. Nothing exists that so fills and binds the heart as love does. Therefore, unless you have those weapons that subdue it, the soul plunges through love into an immense abyss.

Love flourishes in expectation. Expectation strolls through the spacious fields of Time towards Opportunity.