Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.

No Spring nor Summer beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one Autumnal face.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?

Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, angels affect us oft, and worshiped be.

What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?

Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

More than kisses, letters mingle souls.

When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.

ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

In writing, you must kill all your darlings.

I have spent my entire lifetime trying to figure out how to connect work and passion. When I finally figured it out, life became so much more beautiful!

There is no problem if there is ‘egoism’. But, it should be ‘normal’. ‘Normal’ egoism means that it does not hurt anyone.

Most of the time we think we're sick it's all in the mind.

My assumption is I'm not going to be recognized. But when I am, I'm like, "Dang, you know who I am?" I always think I look so different.

Every body type is different - that's what makes you unique. What makes you special is you, and you are different from the next person.

Nothing is as far away as one minute ago.

His mom lived in Long Island for ten years or so. God rest her soul. And, although, she's... wait... your mom's still... your mom's still alive. Your dad passed. God bless her soul.

Loneliness is the theme, and I play it like a symphony, in endless variations.

This concern which interests us more than anything else: the blurring of the distinction between art and life.