As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.
Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides.
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.
Do I love you? My God, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.
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.
There is no remedy for love but to love more.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
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.
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.
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.
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.
You know you're in love when you stop comparing.
Explain! Tell a man to explain how he dropped into hell! Explain my preference! I never had a PREFERENCE for her, any more than I have a preference for breathing. No other woman exists by the side of her. I would rather touch her hand if it were dead, than I would touch any other woman's living.
To Grandma: Once upon a time, there was a boy who flew.
You know what I am going to say. I love you. What other men may mean when they use that expression, I cannot tell. What I mean is that I am under the influence of some tremendous attraction which I have resisted in vain, and which overmasters me. You could draw me to fire, you could draw me to water, you could draw me to the gallows, you could draw me to any death, you could draw me to anything I have most avoided, you could draw me to any exposure and disgrace. This and the confusion of my thoughts, so that I am fit for nothing, is what I mean by your being the ruin of me.
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.
I took a photo of us, mid-embrace. When I am old and alone I will remember that I once held something truly beautiful.
Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.
You gave me a forever within the numbered days, and I'm grateful.
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.
For the Tintin books were my emotional universe. To read them felt quite simply like being loved: in advance and by an entire world of pure possibility, my future. But to write to the author was to reach out for the lover. Even today, the power of reading one remains visceral: each book acts as a form of transportation, not just to the emotional landscape of this first literary love affair but to very specific memories.
If Carl Hiaasen and Donald Westlake had a literary love child, he would be Timothy Hallinan.
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