“She knew herself the heart of a king buried in a sepulchre (in the land of his love) while the body of the king is elsewhere. My heart lies buried in there like Coeur de Lion (or whoever it was) who had his heart buried at Havre (or wherever it was) and the rest of him buried somewhere else.”

“And somewhere, buried away deep inside him, a hidden chamber of his heart opened.”

“They had buried him under our elm tree, they said -- yet this was not totally true. For he really lay buried in my heart.”

“But the queen--too long she has suffered the pain of love,hour by hour nursing the wound with her lifeblood,consumed by the fire buried in her heart. [...]His looks, his words, they pierce her heart and cling--no peace, no rest for her body, love will give her none.”

“The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master.”

“We all have romantic nature of one kind or another buried somewhere in our hearts.”

“She wanted George with some uncorrelated sector of Her Gart, she wanted George to correlate for her, life here, there. She wanted George to define and to make definable a mirage, a reflection of some lost incarnation, a wood maniac, a tree demon, a neuropathic dendrophile...She wanted George to make the thing an integral, herself integrity. She wanted George to make one of his drastic statements that would dynamite her world away for her. She wanted this, but even as she wanted it she let herself sink further, further, she saw that her two hands reached toward George like the hands of a drowned girl. She knew she was not drowned. Where others would drown-lost, suffocated in this element-she knew that she lived. She had no complete right yet to this element, hands struggled to be pulled out. White hands waved above the water like sea spume or inland-growing pond flowers...She wanted George to pull her out, she wanted George to push her in, let Her be drowned utterly.”