Here is the riddle of love: Everything it gives to you, it takes away.

Real love, after all, was worth the price you paid, however briefly it might last.

I don't think I make much of a distinction between the 'real' and the 'fantastic.' They both seem to be threads in the same cloth as far as I'm concerned.

Crying wasn't like riding a bike. Give it up, and you quickly forget how it's done.

I read "The Group" by Mary McCarthy. It had tons of sex in it, or so I thought at the time.

Sally...can no longer think of love as a reality, or even as a possibility, however remote.

He has the ability to catch someone by the way that he looks at her, and make her wish he would go on looking.