To others we are not ourselves but performers in their lives cast for a part we do not even know we are playing.
Blessed are those who give without remembering and take without forgetting.
Irony is the hygiene of the mind.
Friendship is a difficult, dangerous job. It is also (though we rarely admit it) extremely exhausting.
Seeing through is rarely seeing into.
The only thing that matters is to have charm and expression. Then comes that horrible gnawing doubt of our own magnetism. Is it possible that, though we are not lovely, we are not irresistible either? That we will have to go through life belonging neither to the triumphantly beautiful nor to the triumphantly ugly?