Tragedies are all right for a while: you are concerned, you are curious, you feel good. And then it gets repetitive, it doesn’t advance, it grows dreadfully boring: it is so very boring, even for me.
There is no special protection when you cross that invisible line from your ordinary life to that parallel world where tragedies happen. It happens just like this. You don’t become someone else. You’re still exactly the same. Everything around you still smells and looks and feels exactly the same.
There is always something infinitely mean about other people’s tragedies.
There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it.
Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.
News fitting to the night, black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.
Love can be a very frightening thing. That is why most great love stories are tragedies.
Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool, a comedy for the rich, a tragedy for the poor.
It’s odd, isn’t it, why farce so often seems to get mixed up with tragedy?
In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.
All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy.
All tragedies are finished by a death, all comedies are ended by a marriage.
