Oh, Love. Love Is Best Of All.

No One Is Ever Ordinary.

Ecstasy And Vulnerability Belonged In The Same Dish. The Fear The Cup Would Be Snatched Away Was What Gave The Wine Its Savor.

I've Been Criticised For Writing In Too Complex A Manner For Younger People.

The Bitterness Of Joy Lies In The Knowledge That Is Cannot Last. Nor Should Joy Last Beyond A Certain Season, For, After That Season, Even Joy Would Become Merely Habit.

I'm Not Very Good At Being Alive. Sometimes I Despair Of Ever Mastering It, Getting It Right. When I'm Old, Perhaps.