It Is The Fear Of Middle-age In

Fallen Leaves Lying On The Grass In The November Sun Bring More Happiness Than The Daffodils.

Hate Is The Consequence Of Fear; We Fear Something Before We Hate; A Child Who Fears Noises Becomes The Man Who Hates Them.

In A Perfect Union The Man And Woman Are Like A Strung Bow. Who Is To Say Whether The String Bends The Bow, Or The Bow Tightens The String?

In My Religion, There Would Be No Exclusive Doctrine; All Would Be Love, Poetry, And Doubt.

There Is No Pain Equal To That Which Two Lovers Can Inflict On One Another... It Is When We Begin To Hurt Those Whom We Love That The Guilt With Which We Are Born Becomes Intolerable, And Since All Those Whom We Love Intensely And Continuously Grow Part Of Us, And Since We Hate Ourselves In Them, So We Torture Ourselves And Them Together.