the whole of Victorian literature done up in grey paper & neatly tied with string

Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.

As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.

Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.

Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than to merely keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world's view of us.

By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

Be strong in spirit.

The story of the tree is written on every leaf.

My inner wolf seeks to destroy the one I love for reasons of self-preservation. For the only cure to free my soul is to be killed, in an act of true love, by the one who loves me most..

Everything I write is sinful, full of lies, especially the big one, the one you go to hell for: pretending not to be a fool.

Never make the mistake of believing forberance equates to acceptance, or that all positions are equally valid.

What I remember when I started to write was how I couldn't wait to get up in the morning to get to my characters.

No one's ever called me anything but 'Arne.'

Yoga allows you to rediscover a sense of wholeness in your life.

It's absolutely fine to think of new ways of doing things, and I'm not just asking for the traditional reporter to look into our living rooms night after night.