We have time on our hands here, in our hearts, and it makes us strange.
(Kathleen Norris (b. 1947), U.S. poet and farmer. Dakota, ch. 27 (1993).
A resident of rural Lemmon, South Dakotahaving moved there from New York CityNorris was referring to the quiet, sparsely-populated prairies of North and South Dakota.)
In friendship, as well as in love, the mind is often the dupe of the heart.
(Philip Dormer Stanhope, 4th Earl Chesterfield (1694-1773), British statesman, man of letters. letter, Dec. 30, 1751, The French Correspondence of the 4th Earl of Chesterfield, vol. I, p. 92, ed. Rex A. Barrell, trans. James Gray, Ottawa, Borealis Press (1980).)
Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
(Virginia Woolf (1882-1941), British novelist. A Room of One's Own, ch. 3 (1929).
Woolf added: "The indifference of the world which Keats and Flaubert and other men of genius have found so hard to bear was in her case not indifference but hostility. The world did not say to her as it said to them, Write if you choose; it makes no difference to me. The world said with a guffaw, Write? What's the good of you writing?")