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

Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.

Nothing thicker than a knife’s blade separates happiness from melancholy.

Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.

Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can’t use the wrong words.

No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.

He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams.

The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.

I will go down with my colours flying.

Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.

Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.

Love had a thousand shapes.

It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.

I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you’re everything that exists; the reality of everything.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

He’s going on and on and on, and finally he stops. It’s just total horror, and the camera’s still rolling. You can hear it, sort of a grinding noise. And the director says, “Anything else, Bud?”

The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.

The principle of order in me, around me, and in the world… I would watch the buds swell in spring, the mica glint in the granite, my own hands, and I would say to myself: “I will understand this, too, I will understand everything.

The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.

The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers….Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.

How many thorns of human nature are bristling conceits, buds of promise grown sharp for want of congenial climate.

I regard texture similar to the function of taste buds in our mouths. But in a visual form.

A flower growing from seed to bud to bloom is always where it should be. Everything takes time.