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“You act as though we will be together for ever. You act as though there is infinite pleasure and time without end. How can I know that? My experience has been that time always ends.Time without end. In practice we both wear a watch. If I rush at this relationship it’s because I fear for it. I fear you have a door I cannot see and that any minute now the door will open and you’ll be gone”

“I took them into the garden and burned them one by one and I thought how easy it is to destroy the past and how difficult to forget it.”

“Bigger questions, questions with more than one answer, questions without an answer are harder to cope with in silence. Once asked they gain dimension and texture, trip you on the stairs, wake you at night-time.Better then to ask no questions? Better then to be a contented pig than an unhappy Socrates? Since factory farming is tougher on pigs than it is on philosophers I’ll take a chance.”

“I don’t like to think of myself as an insincere person but if I say I love you and I don’t mean it then what else am I? Will I cherish you, adore you, make way for you, make myself better for you, look at you and always see you, tell you the truth? And if love is not those things then what things?”

“ You said, ‘I love you.’ Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? ‘I love you’ is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say it we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them. I did worship them but now I am alone on a rock hewn out of my own body.”

“had never taken him for what he really was – they didn’t love the man himself, but someone who was a figment of their imagination, someone they had been eagerly seeking all their lives. And then, when they realized their mistake, they still loved him. Not one of them had been happy with him. "
me🥳

“He was already going grey. And he thought it strange that he had aged so much over the past years, had lost his good looks. The shoulders on which his hands were resting were warm and trembling. He felt pity for this life, still so warm and beautiful, but probably about to fade and wither like his own. ”
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“And he judged others by himself, disbelieving what he saw, invariably assuming that everyone’s true, most interesting life was carried on under the cloak of secrecy, under the cover of night, as it were. The private, personal life of everyone is grounded in secrecy and this perhaps partly explains why civilized man fusses so neurotically over having this personal secrecy respected.”

“And it was impossible to run away, to escape – one might as well be in a lunatic asylum or a convict squad!”

“What meaningless nights, what dismal, unmemorable days! Those pointless business affairs and perpetual conversations – always on the same theme – were commandeering the best part of his time, his best strength, so that in the end there remained only a limited, humdrum life, just trivial nonsense”

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“For a long time he paced his room, reminiscing and smiling – and then those memories turned into dreams and the past merged in his imagination with what would be. He did not simply dream of Anna Sergeyevna – she followed him everywhere, like a shadow, watching him.”

“and he felt that he had just woken up. So, this was just another adventure or event in his life, he reflected, and that too was over now, leaving only the memory… He was deeply moved and sad, and he felt a slight twinge of regret:”

“. Surely there must be a different kind of life, I told myself. I wanted to live life to the full, to enjoy life… to enjoy it! I was burning with curiosity. You won’t understand this, but I swear that my feelings ran away with me,”

"There is a Charm in your Lines, which gives too sweet an Idea of their lovely Author to be resisted. – I am all impatient for the blissful Moment, which is to throw me at your Feet, and give me an Opportunity of convincing you that I am,

Your everlasting Slave, "

“To tell a story by not telling it—dear shadow, I wrote this slowly.Her starts!My ends.But it all comes roundto a blue June moonand a sullied night as poets say.Some tangos pretend to be about women but look at this.Who is it you seereflected smallin each of her tears.
Watch me fold this page now so you think it is you.”

“After all the heart is not a small stoneto be rolled this way and that.The mind is not a boxto be shut fast.And yet it is!It is!
Well life has some risks. Love is one. Terrible risks.”

“I overlooked one thing.That the beautiful when I encountered it would turn out to beprior—inside my own heart,already eaten.Not out there with purposiveness, with temples, with God.Inside. He was already me.Condition of me.”

“But words
are a strange docile wheat are they not, they bendto the ground.”

"The only thing that can destroy us now is your cowardice.

Tests inlaid with flattery.

You're the only person I'm afraid of.

Intricate with sexual charm.

If you were on a whim to come and soothe me now I would be happy.

And at the heart of it all,the lure that makes war an addiction for some people—that hot bacon smell of pure contradiction.

I hand you my fate. But don't take pity. And don't come back.”

“You see me, you see my life, see what I live on—is that all I want?No. I want to make you see time.How shadows cross a wall and go—
by dividing pure movement into minutes, hours, years, we raisethe psuedo-problem of an underlying “self” whose successive statesthese are supposed to be. Otho or not.
”

“XXIV. AND KNEELING AT THE EDGE OF THE TRANSPARENT SEA I SHALL SHAPE FOR MYSELF A NEW HEART FROM SALT AND MUD”

“a sort of delphic Abstraction a beautiful thing made more     beautiful by being reflected and put in a Mist
JOHN KEATS,note on his copy of Paradise Lost, 1.321
[there is a faint mark after beautiful read by one editor as a dash, by another as a slip of the pen, while a third does not print it]”

“his head in her lap and his virtue coursing through her
as if they were one flesh.Husband and wife may erase a boundary.Creating a white page.”

“Wind picks up and holes blow sideways, holoids now.

In a letter both reader and writer discover an ideal image of themselves, short blinding passages are all it takes.”

“No it's not going to clear up is it or make sense or come out into the open somewherethis welter of disorder and pain is our life.Yes.Your so-called freedom.Our so-called love.”

“And at that momentshe began to be his downfall, if memory serves,since he was already calm.Better to be his downfall than not to be she thinks.”

“He sought her in the word mistress but she wasn't there, he shouldhave sheltered in that doorway from the beginning but nowit was night.
He made night seek her too.
Possible night, impossible night, pegs, strings, stringing her to her ownimpersonation ofhim.
His hand to brush a mark from his face it was her face.
Hesitate,oh hesitate.”

“Inside information.He sought her. He sought her everywhere. Through the nakednessesof his imagination. In sorrow. In foxholes. As deer flicker way off in a wood in latewinter.
He knew he would destroy the deer.
He sought her in her virginity everywhere in it (fray'd and fled) from top to bottomof the little looms and the whitish green and the shivering.He sought her in the ribbon of her missal.”

“Why did nature give me over to this creature—don't call it my choice,I was ventured:by some pure gravity of existence itself,conspiracy of being!”

“There is something pure-edged and burning about the first infidelity in a marriage.
Taxis back and forth.
Tears.
Cracks in the wall where it gets hit.
Lights on late at night.
I cannot live without her.
Her, this word that explodes.
Lights still on in the morning.”