“I remember every single spot of light that ever gouged a shadow beside your bones.”

I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.

I play the radio and moon about…and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

Memories should be sharp when one has nothing else to live for.

Women sometimes seem to share a quiet, unalterable dogma of persecution that endows even the most sophisticated of them with the inarticulate poignancy of the peasant.

They hadn’t much faith in travel, nor a great belief in a change of scene as a panacea for spiritual ills; they were simply glad to be going.

By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future.

Anything incomprehensible has a sexual significance to many people under thirty-five.

She quietly expected great things to happen to her, and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.

It’s terrible to allow conventional habits to gain a hold on a whole household; to eat, sleep and live by clock ticks.

Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.

Why is there happiness and comfort and excitement where you are and no where else in the world.

Pronunciation has made many an innocent word sound like a doctor’s orders for a stomach pump.

Experience teaches you how to do things you never want to do again.

Oh, the secret life of man and woman–dreaming how much better we would be than we are if we were somebody else or even ourselves, and feeling that our estate has been unexploited to its fullest.

Why should all life be work, when we all can borrow. Let’s think only of today, and not worry about tomorrow.

Love is bitter and all there is, and that the rest is for the emotional beggars of the earth.