“God, he loved being a bloke. He loved it so much. He wouldn't be a woman for all the money in the world.”

“He had never quarreled much with this woman, while with the women that he loved he had quarreled so much they had finally, always, with the corrosion of the quarreling, killed what they had together. He had loved too much, demanded too much, and he wore it all out.”

“She cared about him too much, and he was a dangerous person to love. He wouldn't love her back.”

“If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.”

“I can imagine that if there existed a God who loved, the devil would be driven to destroy even the weakest, the most faulty imitation of love. Wouldn't he be afraid that the habit of love might grow, and wouldn't he try to trap us all into being traitors, into helping him extinguish love? If there is a God who uses us and makes his saints out of such material as we are, the devil too may have his ambitions; he may dream of training even such a person as myself... into being his saints, ready with borrowed fanaticism to destroy love wherever we find it.”

“Well, I find a strange comfort in the fact that he wouldn't feel this degree of animosity now, had he not loved me so much before.”