It is better not to sit on the grass after thirty when sprawling at all is difficult, let alone sprawling gracefully.
The half-hour of crowded anticipation, how fully it pays for the sterile hour that follows!
We often call a certainty a hope, to bring it luck.
Can one end anything? A chapter, a paragraph, a sentence even? Doesn’t everything one has ever done go on living in spite of subsequent events?
What is it one yearns for? It is to be able to do a thing for the first time again. And that is impossible.
Only the artists interest me whose hearts beat in unison with the poignant misery of the world. If you have not felt that, you have not lived. Pity is essential.
There is something very independent about French balloons – you feel you couldn’t make a pet of one.
I do not know at what moment in life, if ever, we realise that we are neither George Sands nor Juliets. Of course, if we are not beautiful, we recognise early that beauty is nothing.
To others we are not ourselves but performers in their lives cast for a part we do not even know we are playing.
Isn’t that what love means, to fill ordinary, commonplace, conventional things with magic and significance, not to need the moon and white scent-heavy flowers at night?