I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it.

You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.

If my Valentine you won't be, I'll hang myself on your Christmas tree.

Never to go on trips with anyone you do not love.

And you'll always love me won't you?

And the rain won't make any difference?

There's no one thing that's true. It's all true.

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.

My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way.

Write hard and clear about what hurts.

When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits.

People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.

We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills.

It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

I didn't want to kiss you goodbye — that was the trouble — I wanted to kiss you good night — and there's a lot of difference.

In order to write about life first you must live it.

No, that is the great fallacy: the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful.

There is no friend as loyal as a book.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.