there’s something wrong with any art that makes a woman all bust
the ballerina on perfected toeSpins to the axis of a fortitudeThat is the sum of all her yesterdays.
The unendurable is the beginning of the curve of joy.
…he is not like other children, not cruel, or savage. For this very reason he is called ‘strange.’ A child who is mature, in the sense that the heart is mature, is always, I have observed, called deficient.
I have been loved,” she said, “by something strange, and it has forgotten me.
None of us suffers as much as we should, or loves as much as we say. Love is the first lie; wisdom the last.
I like my human experience served up with a little silence and restraint. Silence makes experience go further and, when it does die, gives it that dignity common to a thing one had touched and not ravished.
He knew at the same time that this stricture of acceptance (by which what we must love is made into what we can love) would eventually be a part of himself
I was doing well enough until you came along and kicked my stone over, and out I came, all moss and eyes.
We are adhering to life now with our last muscle – the heart.