As victims of hurt, we frequently don't bring up what ails us, because so many wounds look absurd in the light of day.

Writing a book has about it some of the anxiety of telling a joke and having to wait several years to know whether or not it was funny.

Perhaps it is true that we do not really exist until there is someone there to see us existing, we cannot properly speak until there is someone who can understand what we are saying in essence, we are not wholly alive until we are loved.

We may seek a fortune for no greater reason than to secure the respect and attention of people who would otherwise look straight through us.

True love is a lack of desire to check one's smartphone in another's presence.

The longing for destiny is nowhere stronger than in our romantic life.

Happiness is impossible for longer than 15 minutes. We are the descendants of creatures who, above all else, worried.