“Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.”

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

I’m sarcastic, skeptical, and sometimes callous because I’m still afraid, deep down, of letting myself be hurt.

I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life.

I knew you’d decide to be all right again.

Wear your heart on your skin in this life.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ.

After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.

Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.

As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn’t want it, you cannot take it back. It’s gone forever.

The hands of the guilty don’t necessarily tremble; only in stories does a dropped glass betray agitation. Tension is more often shown in the studied action.

The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known, For a man by nothing is so well betrayed As by his manners.

It would take too long to explain the intimate alliance of contradictions in human nature which makes love itself wear at times the desperate shape of betrayal. And perhaps there is no possible explanation.

All a man can betray is his conscience.

Love may be likened to a disease in this respect, that when it is denied a vent in one part, it will certainly break out in another; hence what a woman’s lips often conceal, her eyes, her blushes, and many little involuntary actions betray.

Falsehood flies, and truth comes limping after it, so that when men come to be undeceived, it is too late; the jest is over, and the tale hath had its effect.

Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I’d always known. That all courage was a form of constancy. That it is always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals come easily.

Though we may not desire to detect fraud, we must not, on that account, endeavor to be insensible of it, for, as cunning is a crime, so is duplicity a fault, and if men dread knaves, they also despise fools.