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I have lost friends, some by death, others by sheer inability to cross the street.

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Ability Accident Death Friendship Lost Street

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The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.
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Books are the mirrors of the soul.
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Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
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And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves.
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I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
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For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately.
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Nothing thicker than a knife’s blade separates happiness from melancholy.
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The depths of the sea are only water after all.
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I don’t believe in aging. I believe in forever altering one’s aspect to the sun.
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Love had a thousand shapes.
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I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.
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Second hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack.
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To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face, and to know it for what it is, at last, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away.
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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.
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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.
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