And only weaklings...who lack courage and the power to feel they're right when the whole world says they're wrong, ever lose.

I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.

I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.

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

Love is bitter and all there is, and that the rest is for the emotional beggars of the earth.

It's terrible to allow conventional habits to gain a hold on a whole household; to eat, sleep and live by clock ticks.

Nothing could have survived our life.