Not even need and love can defeat fate.

To make a thief, make an owner; to create crime, create laws.

Oh, never and forever aren't for mortals, love. But we won't be parted till I know it's right that we part.

The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.

The end justifies the means. But what if there never is an end? All we have is means.

Love's just one of the ways through, and it can go wrong, and miss. Pain never misses. But therefore we don't have much choice about enduring it! We will, whether we want to or not.

In war everybody is a prisoner.