Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.
If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.
If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.
We loved with a love that was more than love.
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
You and I, it's as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.
Love is not breathlessness; It is not excitement; It is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love”, which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides.
We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness — and call it love — true love.
There is no remedy for love but to love more.
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.
Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.
Do I love you? My God, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.
To love or have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life.
Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being in love which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
When he went back to the fire he knelt and smoothed her hair as she slept and he said if he were God he would have made the world just so and no different.
To Grandma: Once upon a time, there was a boy who flew.
Lying under such a myriad of stars. The sea’s black horizon. He rose and walked out and stood barefoot in the sand and watched the pale surf appear all down the shore and roll and crash and darken again. When he went back to the fire he knelt and smoothed her hair as she slept and he said if he were God he would have made the world just so and no different.
Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.
or simply:
