I hate to lend a book I love — it never seems quite the same when it comes back to me.

She was widely read enough to appreciate my literary wit but not so widely read that she knew my sources. I like that in a woman.

The human world is made of stories$$$ not people. The people the stories use to tell themselves are not to be blamed

People are icebergs$$$ with just a bit you can see and loads you can't.

All romantics meet the same fate some day. Drunk and cynical and boring someone in some dark cafe.

Well$$$ something's lost$$$ but something's gained in living every day.

Insensitive people are only upset when they actually see the blood$$$ but actually by the time that the blood has been shed the tragedy has already completed.

I felt as though I owned the whole world. And little wonder$$$ because at no time are we ever in such complete possession of a journey$$$ down to its last nook and cranny $$$ as when we are busy with preparations for it. After that$$$ there remains only the journey itself$$$ which is nothing but the process through which we lose our ownership of it. This is what makes travel so utterly fruitless.

When a boy discovers that he is more given into introspection and consciousness of self than other boys his age$$$ he easily falls into the error of believing it is because he is more mature than they. This was certainly a mistake in my case. Rather$$$ it was because the other boys had no such need of understanding themselves as I had: they could be their natural selves$$$ whereas I was to play a part$$$ a fact that would require considerable understanding and study.

I've known supreme happiness$$$ and I'm not greedy enough to want what I have to go on forever. Every dream ends. Wouldn't it be foolish$$$ knowing that nothing lasts forever$$$ to insist that one has a right to do something that does?[...]but$$$ if eternity existed$$$ it would be this moment.