If nothing had any meaning, you would be right. But there is something that still has a meaning.

The act of love . . . is a confession. Selfishness screams aloud, vanity shows off, or else true generosity reveals itself.

One always has exaggerated ideas about what one doesn't know.

But it's not easy. I've been thinking it over for years. While we loved each other we didn't need words to make ourselves understood. But people don't love forever. A time came when I should have found the words to keep her with me, only I couldn't.

There is the good and the bad, the great and the low, the just and the unjust. I swear to you that all that will never change.

I know of only one duty, and that is to love.

Sometimes, carrying on, just carrying on, is the superhuman achievement.