The heart of standing is that you cannot fly.

I'm afraid I take ... this rather clinical view of love: it's saving you from madness. I'm not so enthusiastic as other poets have been.

Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

It seems unpleasantly refined to put things off till someone knows.

The heart of standing is that you cannot fly.

Proust has listed a great many reasons why it is impossible to be happy, but, in the course of being happy, one finds it difficult to remember them.

This world is good enough for me, if only I can be good enough for it.