Being unhappy alone isn't all that much fun, but what's even tougher is playing one's part without forgetting one's lines, coping with other people's compassion, their comments, being there with the right line when they give the cue.

The faces you clutch at desperately slip away; it's when you're not thinking about them that their features flash past. It can happen on a street corner, at the turn of a staircase, because somebody said a word, because some image, an image has passed. Then the face is there for a split second, very fragile. One mustn't grasp at it, or it whisks away. One might as well try and catch a cloud. It was a cloud.

No persons are more frequently wrong, than those who will not admit they are wrong.

One cannot answer for his courage when he has never been in danger.

He wondered why he wasn't as in love with her as he was with...Hector had only shared enjoyment with (her)...he shared everything, enjoyment and sorrow...but for some time now they'd shared too much frustration, boredom and fatigue.

If you would tell me the heart of a man, tell me not what he reads, but what he rereads.