Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.

I am obsessed at nights with the idea of my own worthlessness, and if it were only to turn a light on to save my life I think I would not do it. These are the last footprints of a headache I suppose. Do you ever feel that? - like an old weed in a stream. What do you feel, lying in bed?

I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are!

Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.

Money dignifies what is frivolous if unpaid for.

For nothing was simply one thing.