Once you tell your first lie, the first time you lie for him, you are in it with him, and then you are lost.

Is imagination dependent upon experience, or is experience influenced by imagination?

Love is not simply the sum of sweet greetings and wrenching partings and kisses and embraces, but is made up more of the memory of what has happened and the imagining of what is to come.

That I have no right to be jealous is irrelevant. It is a human passion: the sick, white underbelly of love.

Once you tell your first lie, the first time you lie for him, you are in it with him, and then you are lost.

A person walks into a room and says hello, and your life takes a course for which you are not prepared. It's a tiny moment (almost-but not quite-unremarkable), the beginning of a hundred thousand tiny moments and some larger ones.

If you're skating on thin ice, you might as well dance.