“Death is the only real elegance.”

I am really only myself when I’m somebody else whom I have endowed with these wonderful qualities from my imagination.

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

Without you, dearest dearest I couldn’t see or hear or feel or think – or live – I love you so and I’m never in all our lives going to let us be apart another night.

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

I love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.

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?

We get something to do and as soon as we’ve got it, it gets us.

We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising.

Oh, we are going to be so happy away from all the things that almost got us but couldn’t quite because we were too smart for them!

Nothing could have survived our life.

Being in love, she concluded, is simply a presentation of our pasts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone.

Life has puffed and blown itself into a summer day, and clouds and spring billow over the heavens as if calendars were a listing of mathematical errors.

Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.

Look closer and you’ll see something extraordinary, mystifying, something real and true. We have never been what we seemed.

I take a sun bath and listen to the hours, formulating, and disintegrating under the pines, and smell the resiny hardihood of the high noon hours. The world is lost in a blue haze of distances, and the immediate sleeps in a thin and finite sun.

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