What we know of other people's only our memory of the moments during which we knew them.

Footfalls echo in the memory, Down the passage which we did not take, Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden.

We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

No soul is desolate as long as there is a human being for whom it can feel trust and reverence.

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?