Much more likely you’ll hurt me. Still what does it matter? If I’ve got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands.

Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough

Neither sex, without some fertilization of the complimentary characters of the other, is capable of the highest reaches of human endeavor.

Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.

We do not judge the people we love.

There is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.