If you're skating on thin ice, you might as well dance.

Love is not simply the sum of sweet greetings and wrenching partings and kisses and embraces, but is made up more of the memory of what has happened and the imagining of what is to come.

To ward off a feeling of failure, she joked that she could wallpaper her bathroom with rejection slips, which she chose not to see as messages to stop, but rather as tickets to the game.

Once you tell your first lie, the first time you lie for him, you are in it with him, and then you are lost.

There are more experiences in life than you’d think for which there are no words.

Sometimes, she thought, courage was simply a matter of putting one foot in front of another and not stopping.

I learned that night that love is never as ferocious as when you think it is going to leave you. We are not always allowed this knowledge, and so our love sometimes becomes retrospective.

Reunions are always fraught with awkward tensions - the necessity to account for oneself; the attempt to find, through memories, an ember of the old emotions.

Love is never as ferocious as when you think it's going to leave you.

To leave, after all, was not the same as being left.

And then she moved from shock to grief the way she might enter another room.

Your story is the greatest legacy that you will leave to your friends.It's the longest-lasting legacy you will leave to your heirs.

Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.

One of the many innovations of modernism was the new demands it placed on the audience. Music, painting, literature, even architecture, would never again be quite so 'easy' as they had been.

He only drinks when he gets depressed, ' said Carrot. 'Why does he get depressed?' 'Sometimes it's because he hasn't had a drink.

Self-pity is one of the most dangerous forms of self-centeredness. It fogs our vision.

The goodness of your true pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability.

If America is to be great in the future, it will be if we understand that our source is not civic and temporal, but our source is godly and eternal.

In 1910, eighty-two-year-old Leo Tolstoy flees from his wife and dies in a railway station of exposure.

I guess if I had fifty million dollars I could spend more time at home.

I must say that, on the whole, I prefer fiction to poetry.