The cultural transformation from the love of power to the power of love is the drama of our time.
After the discovery in 1918 of love letters revealing that Franklin was involved with Lucy Mercer: The bottom dropped out of my own particular world, I faced myself, my surroundings, my world, honestly for the first time.
Gather therefore the Rose, whilst yet is prime, For soon comes age, that will her pride deflower: Gather the Rose of love, whilst yet is time.
It is better to remember our love as it was in the springtime.
Sometimes love really is just that simple.
I could stay with you forever and never realize the time.
Something that never happens anywhere at any time.
Love is more pleasant once you get out of your twenties. It doesn't hurt all the time.
And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
Take your time. Love is gonna come. Don't force it. Don't try to make it happen. Relax, take your time, and you'll know when it's there. My mom gave me that advice.
Don't make me sad, don't make me cry. Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough, I don't know why.
And sometimes it happened, for a time. That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. You would look at the man one day and you would think, I loved you, and the tense would be past, and you would be filled with a sense of wonder, because it was such an amazing and precarious and dumb thing to have done; and you would know too why your friends have been evasive about it, at the time.
An actor said recently that, unless you're a parent, you shouldn't play a parent in a film. I don't know who said it, but I disagree. I understand that maybe there are aspects that you don't understand, or maybe this actor or actress had a really strong recent experience with having their first or second or third born child. I don't know. As a dad, I get that. I get that there is no love like it. But, at the same time, love is love.
No man is in love when he marries. He may have loved before; I have even heard he has sometimes loved after: but at the time never. There is something in the formalities of the matrimonial preparations that drive away all the little cupidons.
To the men and women who own men and women those of us meant to be lovers we will not pardon you for wasting our bodies and time
Life is fluid, ever evolving. The more dynamic you are, the more happens in your life, all the time.
I will have a song that I'm in love with for a couple of months and then I'll go to something else. That's just constantly changing. And sometimes I will go back to old one that I haven't heard for a long time.
Every now and then the stars align, Boy and girl meet by the great design, Could it be that you and me are the lucky ones? Everybody told me love was blind, Then I saw your face and you blew my mind, Finally you and me are the lucky ones, this time
Sometimes love blinds us, other times it let's us see.
A Japanese proverb says fall seven times, stand up eight. We can also say this: Hate zero times, love infinitely!
Trying to maintain a pleasant state and avoid an unpleasant state is actually the cause of sorrow. When you stop resisting, you see that what seems frightening is actually the absolute beauty of reality. When you see that everything is a momentary display of reality, then you stop resisting it. Resistance hurts, only every single time. Love is the state of nonresistance.
Sometimes love can mean letting go and loving each other from a distance. Maybe that's what you're feeling?
The law of love knows no bounds of space or time.
Love is all around us all the time. Love is the ethers that we swim in. Love is the amniotic fluid of the soul.
A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God. This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty . . . what you will.
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