I hate this place. I shall hate it to my grave.

There is a peacefulness, an air of reflection, about a rocking-chair that attaches to no other moving object.

A marriage, even one that goes awry, generates claims and needs that persist like an afterglow long after the emotional fire is burned out.

I'm not a beautiful woman. I'm nothing to look at, so the only thing I can do is dress better than anyone else.

I was a long time learning that wisdom and experience are things apart; that to taste life is not to be confused with understanding what life is really all about.

I hate this place. I shall hate it to my grave.

Fortunately for the human race, pain, however piercing, is not a lasting emotion. The recollection of happiness lingers, but the consciousness never retains for long the first thrust of tragic loss. The details of daily life crowd in upon the mind.