Women's hearts are like old china, none the worse for a break or two.

This love was a torment, and he resented bitterly the subjugation in which it held him; he was a prisoner and he longed for freedom. Sometimes he awoke in the morning and felt nothing; his soul leaped, for he thought he was free; he loved no longer; but in a little while, as he grew wide awake, the pain settled in his heart, and he knew that he was not cured yet.

We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to.

Perfect is determined in shortened measures of time, not over long periods of time or lifetimes. It would be unnatural.

The trouble with young writers is that they are all in their sixties.

The dead look so terribly dead when they're dead.

I can only guess that it made the world he went back to...strangely without meaning. Though he lived in it, though he even enjoyed it, it remained utterly remote. I think it had lost sense for him. In his heart was the reflection of a lovely dream that he could never quite recall.