— I’ve never worn a ring before, they’ve always seemed so inappropriate—but I love to see this shining there so nice and white like our love—And it sorter says “soon” to me all the time—Just sings it all day long.
— I’ve just found a Masonic chart and with the help of pencilled notes, I am about to fathom unfathomable secrets—If I could just stop reading “Scott” in every line I’d make more progress.
— I’ve tried so many times to think of a new way to say it—and it’s still I love you—love you—love you.
— In Paris, before I realised that I was sick, there was a new significance to everything: stations and streets and façades of buildings—colours were infinite, part of the air, and not restricted by the lines that encompassed them and lines were free of the masses they held. There was music that beat behind my forehead and other music that fell into my stomach from a high parabola and there was some of Schumann that was still and tender and the sadness of Chopin Mazurkas. Some of them sound as if he thought that he couldn’t compose them.
— The thing that counts is to apply the few resources available to turning life into a tenable orderly affair that resembles neither the black hole of Calcutta or Cardinal Ballou’s cage.
— Living is cold and technical without you, a death mask of itself. At noon I played bridge and watched Dr. Forel’s profile dissecting the sky.
—You do not walk like a person plowing a storm but like a person very surprised at their means of locomotion, hardly touching the earth, as if each step were experimental.
— I love these velvet nights. I’ve never been able to decide whether the night was a bitter enemy or a “grand patron”—or whether I love you most in the eternal classic half-lights where it blends with day or in the full religious fanfare of midnight or perhaps in the lux of noon. Anyway, I love you most and you phoned me tonight—I walked on those telephone wires for two hours after, holding your love like a parasol to balance me.