Now, when she felt so deeply connected to him, they were finally estranged.
I feel I'm at the end of something — everything is going to be different — and terrible.That doesn't sound like you, you ride every wave.There is one that will drown me.
Your infatuation will end in tears.
The room had the rather sinister tedium which some bedrooms have, a sort of weary banality which is a reminder of death. A dressing table can be a terrible thing.
But the spark vanished, there was no longed-for recognition, no dawning sign of recovery. The love she had learnt in tending him was an enclosed love, muted and maimed, already mourning. They would ne...
Oh my life is so awful, it's just so awful to be me, you don't know what it's like waking every morning and finding the whole horror of being yourself still there.
I want to be cut off from people like Marloe. Being a real person oneself is a matter of setting up limits and drawing lines and saying no. I don't want to be a nebulous bit of ectoplasm straying arou...
I have no close friends, that is, no friends.
You talk of freedom — I've never had it! I've been lonely and miserable and in despair, and you want me to consent to all that all over again!
We shall meet, but as strangers. It is the end of an era. A whole part of my life is torn away.
Most friendships are a sort of frozen and undeveloping semi-hostility.
Don't tease me. Everything wounds me now except perfect kindness.
The trouble with people nowadays is they don't know how to do nothing.
So was she on the side of dragons and indifferent to the fate of princesses?
Sometimes I feel I am crammed with demons.
He suffers terribly all the time. He lives in fire.
There is a time limit to how long a spirited young person can be kept in cold storage.
There is a kind of despair involved in creation which I am sure any artist knows all about. In art, as in morality, great things go by the board because at the crucial moment we blink our eyes. When i...
One can be too ingenious in trying to search out the truth. Sometimes one must simply respect its veiled face. Of course this is a love story.
I adore your jealousy, especially when it's so misplaced. I expect Shakespeare wrote a sonnet about that.