“Until we can comprehend the beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the meaning and potential of life itself.”

Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I’m never not thinking of you.

I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title.

Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be a protected occupation.

I don’t believe in aging. I believe in forever altering one’s aspect to the sun.

Marvelous are the innocent.

Fear no more, says the heart.

She always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.

But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual.

And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.

I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

Arrange whatever pieces come your way.

Consolation for those moments when you can’t tell whether you’re the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.

It’s not my job to look beautiful. It’s my job to look interesting.

I cried and cried and cried having Realized that the beauty of my soul was being neglected by nobody else but myself.

What is pertinent is the calmness of that beauty, its sense of restraint.

Everything beautiful has a mark of eternity.

Dance is communication, and so the great challenge is to speak clearly, beautifully and with inevitability.

May you know the beauty of your own true nature.

I love women. I’m trying to do beautiful things with them. I’m not trying to insult them. My life is not about that.

Her face looked ugly in the attempt to avoid tears; it was an ugliness which bound him to her more than any beauty could have done. It isn’t being happy together, he thought as though it were a fresh discovery, that makes one love–it’s being unhappy together.