“The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last.”

“If God had granted all the silly prayers I’ve made in my life, where should I be now?”

“Thirty was so strange for me. I’ve really had to come to terms with the fact that I am now a walking and talking adult.”

“Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.”

“Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with true virtue.”

Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.

You were made perfectly to be loved and surely I have loved you in the idea of you my whole life long.

What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.

Life loves to be taken by the lapel and told: "I'm with you kid. Let's go.

She lived, we'll say, A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, A quiet life, which was not life at all (But that she had not lived enough to know)

A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, A quiet life, which was not life at all . . .

Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm.

Consistency is contrary to nature, contrary to life. The only completely consistent people are the dead.

It is a bit embarrassing to have been concerned with the human problem all one's life and find at the end that one has no more to offer by way of advice than 'Try to be a little kinder.

We live together, we act on, and react to one another; but always, and in all circumstances, we are by ourselves.

“Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope.”

I shall do one thing in this life - one thing certain - that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die.

O, you have torn my life all to pieces... made me be what I prayed you in pity not to make me be again!

Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die…

We ought to have lived in mental communion, and no more.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest. The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

And die of nothing but a rage to live

This long disease, my life.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.