Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? |
His morality is all sympathy, just what morality should be |
His style is chaos illumined by flashes of lightning. As a writer he has mastered everything except language. |
History is merely gossip |
How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being. |
How clever you are, my dear! You never mean a single word you say. |
How else but through a broken heart may Lord Christ enter in? |
How marriage ruins a man! It is as demoralizing as cigarettes, and far more expensive. |
How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrid, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June. . . . If it was only the other way! If it was I who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old! For this--for this--I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! |
How strange a thing this is! The Priest telleth me that the Soul is worth all the gold in the world, and the merchants say that it is not worth a clipped piece of silver. |
I adore political parties. They are the only place left to us where people don't talk politics. |
I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex. |
I am not young enough to know everything. |
I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying. |
I am the only person in the world I should like to know thoroughly. |