A woman who writes feels too much.

Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.

Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.

O starry night, This is how I want to die

O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.

You recreate yourself, when you relax.

Perhaps a book becomes a classic in proportion to how broadly its characters can be scavenged, how many readers find within it something they experience as desirable or even intimately necessary.

Walking in close fellowship with God is a spiritual self.

Oh yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it or learn from it.

A spoon does not know whether it enters a rich or poor man's mouth.

To my horror principles have wormed their way into [the] fabric of my being.

I never condemn wrongdoing in any area.

Three were the fates. Poverty that chains; gray drudgery that grinds the hope away, and gaping ignorance that starves the soul.

I don't like to take a lot of stuff since I'm really sensitive to medications.

I boast of being the only man in London who has been bombed off a lavatory seat while reading Jane Austen. She went into the bath; I went through the door.