Perhaps because the origins of a certain kind of love lie in an impulse to escape ourselves and out weaknesses by an alliance with the beautiful and noble. But if the loved ones love us back, we are forced to return to ourselves, and are hence reminded of the things that had driven us into love in the first place. Perhaps it was not love we wanted after all, perhaps it was simply someone in whom to believe, but how can we continue to believe the the beloved now that they believe in us?

Most of our childhood is stored not in photos, but in certain biscuits, lights of day, smells, textures of carpet.

We should keep a careful diary of our moments of envy: they are our covert guides to what we should try to do next.

Being funny should be an incidental byproduct of trying to get to something truthful, not a destination in itself.

The difference between hope and despair is a different way of telling stories from the same facts.

Getting to the top has an unfortunate tendency to persuade people that the system is OK after all.

One rarely falls in love without being as much attracted to what is interestingly wrong with someone as what is objectively healthy.