I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise, erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions, fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes.

Maybe other people's ideas of us are truer than our own.

People are like almanacs, Bonnie - you never can find the information you're looking for, but the casual reading is well worth the trouble.

Don't you think I was made for you? I feel like you had me ordered - and I was delivered to you - to be worn. I want you to wear me, like a watch-charm or a buttonhole bouquet.

Millie Beggs, by the time she was forty-five, had become an emotional anarchist.

I don't want to live. I want to love first, and live incidentally.