Necessity has a way of obliterating from our conduct various delicate scruples regarding honor and pride.
My mother is a fish.
Menfolks listens to somebody because of what he says. Women don’t. They don’t care what he said. They listens because of what he is.
Memory believes before knowing remembers.
Maybe the only thing worse than having to give gratitude constantly is having to accept it.
Man the sum of what have you. A problem in impure properties carried tediously to an unvarying nil: stalemate of dust and desire.
Man knows so little about his fellows. In his eyes all men or women act upon what he believes would motivate him if he were mad enough to do what that other man or woman is doing.
Love in the young requires as little of hope as of desire to feed upon.
Love doesn’t die; the men and women do.
Life was created in the valleys. It blew up onto the hills on the old terrors, the old lusts, the old despairs. That’s why you must walk up the hills so you can ride down.
Knowing not grieving remembers a thousand savage and lonely streets.
It is hard believing to think that a love or a sorrow is a bond purchased without design and which matures willynilly and is recalled without warning to be replaced by whatever issue the gods happen to be floating at the time.