The absolute yearning of one human body for another particular body and its indifference to substitutes is one of life's major mysteries.
People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.
Anything that consoles is fake.
Perhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wavelength of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.
No love is entirely without worth, even when the frivolous calls to the frivolous and the base to the base.
Happiness is a matter of one's most ordinary and everyday mode of consciousness being busy and lively and unconcerned with self.
Falling out of love is chiefly a matter of forgetting how charming someone is.
I think being a woman is like being Irish. Everyone says you're important and nice, but you take second place all the same.
Perhaps misguided moral passion is better than confused indifference.
We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality.
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