What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. The Beatles. And me.
Love means never having to say you’re sorry.
True love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked.
I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons.
And then I did what I had never done in his presence, much less in his arms. I cried.
Some were brilliant bordering on genius. Others, genius bordering on madness.
Professors of classics – not even a professor of English – professors of classics, they’re something sacred; it’s almost like being a priest.
Quiet heroism or youthful idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living – or that either can be fatal?
What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?
This isn’t a watercolor, it’s a mural.
It takes someone very special to help you forget someone very special.
Sometimes I amaze even myself.
The ‘equilibrium’ that people see in me is really an illusion. I am as flawed as anyone. It’s only that I seem to have the knack of hiding.
Something may have been lost in translation, but it certainly wasn’t love.
There was a brief silence. I think I heard snow falling.
The pain of not knowing what to do was exceeded only by that of knowing what I had done.
Please, if one of us cries, let both of us cry. But preferably neither of us.
Part of being a big winner is the ability to be a big loser. There is no paradox involved. It is a distinctly Harvard thing to be able to turn any defeat into victory.