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

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

His sadness was of the kind that is patient and without hope.

The view after seventy is breathtaking. What is lacking is someone, anyone, of the older generation to whom you can turn when you want to satisfy your curiosity about some detail of the landscape of the past. There is no longer any older generation. You have become it, while your mind was mostly on other matters

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

Happiness is the light on the water. The water is cold and dark and deep.

Because I actively enjoy sleeping, dreams, the unexplainable dialogues that take place in my head as I am drifting off, all that, I tell myself that lying down to an afternoon nap that goes on and on through eternity is not something to be concerned about. What spoils this pleasant fancy is the recollection that when people are dead they don't read books. This I find unbearable.