Then what's a synonym for woman?" "Entrails." "You're not very poetic, are you? Well, then, what's the antonym for entrails?" "Milk.

What uneasiness lies in being loved.

For someone like myself in whom the ability to trust others is so cracked and broken that I am wretchedly timid and am forever trying to read the expression on people's faces.

The weak fear happiness itself. They can harm themselves on cotton wool. Sometimes they are wounded even by happiness

A true artist is an ugly man.

Now even if I die, no one will be so grieved as to do himself bodily harm.

I like roses best. But they bloom in all four seasons. I wonder if people who like roses best have to die four times over again.

But happiness is being able to hope, however faintly, for happiness. So, at least, we must believe if we are to live in the world of today.

Victims. Victims of a transitional period of morality. That is what we both certainly are.

Mine has been a life of much shame. I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.

Addiction is perhaps a sickness of the spirit.

Sometimes I tend to worry too much and at the end of all the preoccupation nothing goes wrong.

Nation has to be proud of itself to move forward.It should be clear that as long as India does not stand-up, there will be no peace in Asia.

Evil events from evil causes spring.

There is a sort of subjection which is the peculiar heritage of largeness and of love; and strength is often only another name for willing bondage to irremediable weakness.

Marriage is memory, marriage is time. Marriage is not only time: it is also, parodoxically, the denial of time.

All in the golden afternoon Full leisurely we glide; For both our oars, with little skill, By little arms are plied, While little hands make vain pretence Our wanderings to guide.

If I was the type of person who had tennis, tennis, tennis all the time and I went to bed and ended up dreaming about tennis, I would go nuts.

My motivation comes from a desire to make a difference in the quality of people's lives.

Politics is the art of making the people believe that they are in power, when in fact, they have none.

By being seldom seen, I could not stir But like a comet I was wondered at.