One Never Knows When One Is Old

It's Not Till Sex Has Died Out Between A Man And A Woman That They Can Really Love. And Now I Mean Affection. Now I Mean To Be Fond Of (as One Is Fond Of Oneself) -to Hope, To Be Disappointed, To Live Inside The Other Heart. When I Look Back On The Pain Of Sex, The Love Like A Wild Fox So Ready To Bite, The Antagonism That Sits Like A Twin Beside Love, And Contrast It With Affection, So Deeply Unrepeatable, Of Two People Who Have Lived A Life Together (and Of Whom One Must Die) It's The Affection I Find Richer. It's That I Would Have Again. Not All Those Doubtful Rainbow Colors.

Who Wants To Become A Writer? And Why? Because It's The Answer To Everything. ... It's The Streaming Reason For Living. To Note, To Pin Down, To Build Up, To Create, To Be Astonished At Nothing, To Cherish The Oddities, To Let Nothing Go Down The Drain, To Make Something, To Make A Great Flower Out Of Life, Even If It's A Cactus.

But I Had Been In Love Pretty Often And I Didn't Think It Stood The Wear And Tear.

Dead News Like Dead Love Has No Phoenix In Its Ashes.

The Dangerous Thing About Hate Is That It Seems So Reasonable.