One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best.

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We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.

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If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

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You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... I have loved none but you.

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The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much!

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In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

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For Love, to which we may now return, has two faces; one white, the other black; two bodies; one smooth, the other hairy. It has two hands, two feet, two tails, two, indeed, of every member and each one is the exact opposite of the other. Yet, so strictly are they joined together that you cannot separate them.

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I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.

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But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

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To love makes one solitary.

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