Oh, I’m Not A Berkeleian. I Believe

Nobody Here Could Ever Talk About A Heaven On Earth. Heaven Remained Rigidly In Its Proper Place On The Other Side Of Death, And On This Side Flourished The Injustices, The Cruelties, The Meanness That Elsewhere People So Cleverly Hushed Up. Here You Could Love Human Beings Nearly As God Loved Them, Knowing The Worst: You Didn't Love A Pose, A Pretty Dress, A Sentiment Artfully Assumed.

...and Yet Could Swear It Was Just Then That I Fell In Love. It Wasn't, Of Course, Simply The Onions -- It Was The Sudden Sense Of An Individual Woman, Of A Frankness That Was So Often Later To Make Me Happy And Miserable.

It Is Impossible To Go Through Life Without Trust: That Is To Be Imprisoned In The Worst Cell Of All, Oneself.

A Writer Doesn't Write For His Readers, Does He? Yet He Has To Take Elementary Precautions All The Same, To Make Them Comfortable.

I Can Never Think Of You As A Friend. You Can Do Without A Friend.