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

The nail doesn't choose the time or the circumstances in which it is drawn to the magnet

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

In talking about the past, we lie with every breath we draw.

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

A writer is a reader who is moved to emulation.

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