Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.
We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising. I still believe that one can learn to play the piano by mail and that mud will give you a perfect complexion.
I don’t want to live. I want to love first, and live incidentally.
By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future.
Mr. Fitzgerald, I believe that is how he spells his name, seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.