Anyone who ever gave you confidence, you owe them a lot.
Never love a wild thing... But you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Bother a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, Mr Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky.
Some of them may have an honest tongue but they all have dishonest hearts.
It's a bore, but the answer is good things only happen to you if you're good. Good? Honest is more what I mean. Not the law-type honest - I'd rob a grave, I'd steal two-bits off a dead man's eyes if I thought it would contribute to the day's enjoyment - but unto thyself type honest. Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I'd rather have cancer than an dishonest heart.
Our understanding of each other had reached that sweet depth where two people communicate more often in silence than in words: an affectionate quietness replaces the tensions, the unrelated chatter and chasing about that produce a friendship's more showy, more, in the surface sense, dramatic moments.
'I'm very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what's yours until you've thrown it away. The mean reds, they're nothing. The fat woman, she nothing. This, though: my mouth is dry, if my life depended on it I couldn't spit.' ~ after Holly Golightly left the cat on the street in Spanish Harlem, before her flight to Rio.
