No object is mysterious. The mystery is in your eye.
The heart may think it knows better the senses know that absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends. The friend becomes a traitor by breaking, however unwillingly or sadly, out of our own zone a hard judgment is passed on him, for all the pleas of the heart.
Nobody speaks the truth when there's something they must have.
It is in this unearthly first hour of spring twilight that earth's almost agonized livingness is most felt. This hour is so dreadful to some people that they hurry indoors and turn on the lights.
Art is the only thing that can go on mattering once it has stopped hurting
Art is one thing that can go on mattering once it has stopped hurting.
The charm, one might say the genius of memory, is that it is choosy, chancy, and temperamental: it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust
There is no end to the violations committed by children on children, quietly talking alone.
Experience isn't interesting until it begins to repeat itself - in fact, till it does that, it hardly is experience
Intimacies between women often go backwards, beginning in revelations and ending in small talk without loss of esteem
Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.
First love, with its frantic haughty imagination, swings its object clear of the everyday, over the rut of living, making him all looks, silences, gestures, attitudes, a burning phrase with no context
Good-byes breed a sort of distaste for whomever you say good-bye to; this hurts, you feel, this must not happen again
Meeting people unlike oneself does not enlarge one's outlook; it only confirms one's idea that one is unique
Illusions are art, for the feeling person, and it is by art that we live, if we do