Anaïs Nin

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Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings

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How wrong is it for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself?

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Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage

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We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations

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I must be a mermaid, Rango. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living