Who knows what oversensitive is, considering all there is to be sensitive to.

Satin and lace and brown velvet and the faint odor of violets. That was all which was left to him of his love.

My younger daughter told me recently that when she was a child she thought the typewriter was a toy that I went into my room and closed the door and played with.

Love, even of the most ardent and soul-destroying kind, is never caught by the lens of the camera.

The reason life is so strange is that so often people have no choice.

Who knows what oversensitive is, considering all there is to be sensitive to.

It's deprivation that makes people writers, if they have it in them to be a writer.