Odd how intensely you knew a person, or thought you did, when you were in love-soaked, drenched in love-only to discover later that perhaps you didn't know that person quite as well as you had imagined.
love is ... something extraordinary that happens to ordinary people.
Is imagination dependent upon experience, or is experience influenced by imagination?
I wonder this: If you take a woman and push her to the edge, how will she behave?
To be relieved of love, she thought, was to give up a terrible burden.
Good luck, I'm beginning to discover, is just as baffling as the bad. There never seems to be a reason for it - no sense of reward or punishment. It simply is - the most incomprehensible idea of all.