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All love affairs end. Eventually the girl is gonna put curlers in her hair.
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A comedy is just a tragedy interrupted, I once said. Do you finish with the kiss or when she opens her eyes to tell him she loves him and sees blonde hairs on his collar?
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I love to see old women. I love wrinkles. I love gray hair.
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He seemed so certain about everything, didn't he? And yet none of his certainties was worth one hair of a woman's head. He wasn't even sure he was alive, because he was living like a dead man.
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I can imagine myself on my death-bed, spent utterly with lust to touch the next world, like a boy asking for his first kiss from a woman.
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Still when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, some Athens perishes, or some Tully bleeds.
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Love is more cruel than lust.
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There are few things more wearisome in a fairly fatiguing life than the monotonous repetition of a phrase which catches and holds the public fancy by virtue of its total lack of significance.
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Imagination in poetry, as distinguished from mere fancy is the transfiguring of the real or actual to the ideal.
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We are most deeply asleep at the switch when we fancy we control any switches at all.
