Don't ask the world to stop moving because you have doubts.

The damnable frustration of revenge. Revenge is for dreams...never for reality.

The name of Italy has magic in its very syllables.

Love shook my heart like a wind falling on oaks on a mountain.

Books$$$ too$$$ begin like the week with a day of rest in memory of their creation. The preface is their Sunday.

Our image of happiness is indissolubly bound up with the image of redemption.

In the end$$$ we get older$$$ we kill everyone who loves us through the worries we give them$$$ through the troubled tenderness we inspire in them$$$ and the fears we ceaselessly cause.

All things that pass Are wisdom's looking-glass.

It is my childish mind that thinks people are ready to give it just because you need it.

So things go on as before with those who think a great deal and effect nothing$$$ and those who think nothing evidently doing it all...