“We do not pass through the same door twice Or return to the door through which we did not pass.”

There’s no vocabulary For love within a family, love that’s lived in But not looked at, love within the light of which All else is seen, the love within which All other love finds speech. This love is silent.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

Every experience is a paradox in that it means to be absolute, and yet is relative; in that it somehow always goes beyond itself and yet never escapes itself.

Unreal friendship may turn to real But real friendship, once ended, cannot be mended

I learn a great deal by merely observing you, and letting you talk as long as you please, and taking note of what you do not say.

No one can become really educated without having pursued some study in which he took no interest- for it is a part of education to learn to interest ourselves in subjects for which we have no aptitude.

The visible reminder of Invisible Light.

We don’t actually fear death, we fear that no one will notice our absence, that we will disappear without a trace.

People to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.

Success is relative. It is what we make of the mess we have made of things.

Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.

Anxiety is the handmaiden of creativity

Books. Cats. Life is good.

There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.

In my end is my beginning.

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

The demand for certainty is one that is natural to man but is nevertheless an intellectual vice.

When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots?

I don’t want whatever I want. Nobody does. Not really. What kind of fun would it be if I just got everything I ever wanted just like that, and it didn’t mean anything? What then?

I think hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go.

To philosophers and historians, the madness and imbecile wickedness of mankind ought to appear ordinary events.

Beneath this skin beneath these bones beneath this blood I exist.

Nobody looks like what they really are on the inside. You don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true of everybody.

Silence is sometimes an argument of Consent.