Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope it is impossible. – Elizabeth Bowen
Experience isnt interesting until it begins to repeat itself. In fact, till it does that, it hardly is experience. – Elizabeth Bowen
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The charm, one might say the genius of memory, is that it is choosy, chancy, and temperamental: it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust. – Elizabeth Bowen
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Only in a house where one has learnt to be lonely does one have this solicitude for things. Ones relation to them, the daily seeing or touching, begins to become love, and to lay one open to pain. – Elizabeth Bowen
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