I believed I was a salamander, and it seems I am nothing but an impediment.

Oh, the secret life of man and woman--dreaming how much better we would be than we are if we were somebody else or even ourselves, and feeling that our estate has been unexploited to its fullest.

I can't read or sleep. Without hope or youth or money I sit constantly wishing I were dead.

Why do we spend years using up our bodies to nurture our minds with experience and find our minds turning then to our exhausted bodies for solace?

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

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.

Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure ... another chance in life.