You said you were having fun.""Well, yes and no, strictly speaking I was in hell. Perhaps I have always been there. One can have fun in hell.

I am not a neurotic!""You're trembling with nerves and sensibility—""Of course I am, I'm an artist!

Do you think she'll change?""Hope nothing.""Is there a cure?""Only art. Or more love.""I should die of more love.

I feel I'm at the end of something — everything is going to be different — and terrible.""That doesn't sound like you, you ride every wave.""There is one that will drown me.

I think one should pay so much attention to technique, don't you? Like learning to draw before you paint.

I'm falling in love with you again, most terribly in love.""I've never been out of love with you, never for a second.

There's no point in talking it over. It would only make things worse. There's nothing to say. I just love you. That's all of it.""That's half of it," said Ducane. "Possibly over dinner I might tell you the other half.

I suspect the study of English literature is doing you no good, it's full of all sorts of romantic high-flown nonsense. You've been reading Shelley.""I plead guilty to that crime.

You can't go through the looking-glass without getting cut. You know that now, don't you?