You may wonder why I haven’t killed myself because living with madness or watching it flood the heart of someone we love is unbearable.
I can’t stop thinking that everybody is somebody’s child.
Many things are hard, Danny. Life comes at you in pieces sometimes too big to avoid.
In a sense we are all prisoners of some memory, or fear, or disappointment – we are all defined by something we can’t change.
But war only ends for those who have not been in one.
I barely remember her, but I am still in love with her ghost.
Pain is proof of something worthwhile.
That’s truth, Harvey, not what’s written on a piece of paper or in blood too small to see – but the memory of how it felt being together.
She told me that love is when a person introduces you to yourself for the first time. After.
We may mean nothing to time, but to each other we are kings and queens, and the world is a wild benevolent garden filled with chance meetings and unexplained departures. Magda.
Thomas realized he had changed, that he was not the same man, but like everyone else, he was the result of an accident that had once taken place between nature and chance. An.
I live in Rome where people sit by fountains and kiss. The sound of water is the sound of love rushing between them.
Each year is like putting a new coat over all the old ones. Sometimes I reach into the pockets of my childhood and pull things out.
Before I met with my wife, I loved her very much. I didn’t know who she was, but I had a fire inside me for someone I knew existed. Now that she hangs out stars, I still love her, though we speak another language altogether.
I never want her to know that fatherhood was the ambition of my life.
My love for you will always be stronger than any truth.
In his heart, some tiny piece of what hadn’t happened would lodge.
The poet Emily Dickinson said that nature is a haunted house, while art is a house that tries to be haunted. She was born and died in the same room.
When a person is loved, they are granted the strength of all seas.
I remember the bed and the crisp, yellowing sheets. I wondered how many people had slept in it. I marveled at how the pillow, like a small theater, had staged countless dreams.
But sometimes you have to break rules because nothing is perfect.