The self-righteous scream judgments against others to hide the noise of skeletons dancing in their own closets.

Your transformation will begin the moment you stop worrying for someone rise to rescue you.

We're all in the human race. The question is, are you running toward your dreams or just away from your fears?

She was a tragic beauty. Sadness had left its fingerprints all over her face.

Birthing is never easy or without pain, be it a universe, a child, or a fresh start in life. Contraction precedes expansion. Darkness comes before dawn. Joy follows pain. This is the way of things.

Opening to love will always involve risk, but a heart safe from pain is one also locked to joy.

Sadness is a bruise on the skin of memory.

When sorrow's cup is filled up to the brim, the slightest touch of memory can cause tears to spill again.

Strangely incurious, her lovers from before. She has worlds within I'm longing to explore.

She had a very inconvenient heart. It always insisted on feeling things ever so deeply.

She thirsted for love, but found only a mirage. Some hearts are a desert you can die wandering in.

Self education is the key to self liberation.

Light cannot enter a dark room without illumining it.

Give me a literary love that doesn't need words, that flows like silent water and speaks to the bone. There I lose myself in the fantasy.

I would give wings to children, but I would leave it to them to learn how to fly by themselves.

I can write better plays than any living danced, and dance better than any living playwright.

I was disillusioned by Hollywood at the time, but now I've come to accept that's just the way things are: it's called show business, not show art.

Both dance and dream are brought into being by the consciousness of a moment. They can never be repeated or successfully imitated. But you can dance and dream again. You must, if life is to continue.

Not only do words infect, egotize, narcotize, and paralyze, but they enter into and colour the minutest cells of the brain. . . .

But the best I've known Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades from brains Of living men, and dies.

When you write, you want to get rid of the world, don’t you? Of course you do. When you’re writing, you’re creating your own worlds.