No object is mysterious. The mystery is your eye.
Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope; it is impossible.
Never to lie is to have no lock to your door, you are never wholly alone.
Fantasy is toxic: the private cruelty and the world war both have their start in the heated brain.
Education is not so important as people think.
Nobody can be kinder than the narcissist while you react to life in his own terms.
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.
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.
When you love someone all your saved-up wishes start coming out.
Only in a house where one has learnt to be lonely does one have this solicitude for things. One's relation to them, the daily seeing or touching, begins to become love, and to lay one open to pain.
Art is the only thing that can go on mattering, once it has stopped hurting.
Nobody speaks the truth when there's something they must have.
Jealousy is no more than feeling alone against smiling enemies.
Intimacies between women go backwards, beginning with revelations and ending up in small talk without loss of esteem.
Some people are molded by their admirations, others by their hostilities.
All your youth you want to have your greatness taken for granted; when you find it taken for granted, you are unnerved.
Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.
It is not our exalted feelings, it is our sentiments that build the necessary home.
There is no end to the violations committed by children on children, quietly talking alone.
When you love someone all your saved up wishes start coming out.
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