Human affairs are not serious, but they have to be taken seriously.
Falling out of love is chiefly a matter of forgetting how charming someone is.
The sin of pride may be a small or a great thing in someone's life, and hurt vanity a passing pinprick, or a self-destroying or ever murderous obsession.
He was a sociologist; he had got into an intellectual muddle early on in life and never managed to get out.
Freedom is not choosing; that is merely the move that we make when all is already lost. Freedom is knowing and understanding and respecting things quite other than ourselves.
In a happy marriage there is a continuous dense magnetic sense of communication.
Falling out of love is very enlightening. For a short while you see the world with new eyes.
As we live our precarious lives on the brink of the void, constantly coming closer to a state of nonbeing, we are all too often aware of our fragitlity.
Those who hope, by retiring from the world, to earn a holiday from human frailty, in themselves and others, are usually disappointed.
I daresay anything can be made holy by being sincerely worshipped.
There is no substitute for the comfort supplied by the utterly taken-for-granted relationship.
The talk of lovers who have just declared their love is one of life's most sweet delights. Each vies with the other in humility, in amazement at being so valued. The past is searched for the first signs and each one is in haste to declare all that he is so that no part of his being escapes the hallowing touch.
The human soul is not framed for continued proximity, and the result of this enforced neighbourhood is often an appalling loneliness for which the rules of the game forbid assuagement.
Possibly, more people kill themselves and others out of hurt vanity than out of envy, jealousy, malice or desire for revenge.
emotions really exist at the bottom of the personality or at the top. in the middle they are acted. this is why all the world is a stage.
The most interesting things are always happening behind one.
There is a spider called Amaurobius, which lives in a burrow and has its young in the late summer, and then it dies when the frosts begin, and the young spiders live through the cold by eating their mother's dead body. One can't believe that's an accident. I don't know that I imagined God as having thought it all out, but somehow He was connected with the pattern, He was the pattern.
I hate solitude but I am afraid of intimacy. The substance of my life is a private conversation with myself and to turn it into a dialogue would be equivalent to self-destruction. The company I need is the company which a pub or a cafe will provide. I have never wanted a communion of souls.
Then I felt too that I might take this opportunity to tie up a few loose ends, only of course loose ends can never be properly tied, one is always producing new ones. Time, like the sea, unties all knots. Judgements on people are never final, they emerge from summings up which at once suggest the need of a reconsideration. Human arrangements are nothing but loose ends and hazy reckoning, whatever art may otherwise pretend in order to console us.
Oh the piercing sadness of life in the midst of its ordinariness!
Art is brief. (Not in a temporal sense.) [...] Words are for concealment. Art is concealment.
Nothing is more maddening than being questioned by the object of one's interest about the object of hers, should that object not be you.
The most potent and sacred command which can be laid upon any artist is the command: wait.
Bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved
being homosexual doesn't determine a man's whole character any more than being heterosexual does.
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