I'm beginning to think that maybe it's not just how much you love someone. Maybe what matters is who you are when you're with them.
He wished he had inhabited more of his life, used it better, filled it fuller.
Now peculiar scraps of knowledge were stuck to him like lint from all his jobs.
It struck her all at once that dealing with other human beings was an awful lot of work.
It seems to me that good novels celebrate the mystery in ordinary life, and summing it all up in psychological terms strips the mystery away
One sad thing about this world is that the acts that take the most out of you are usually the ones that people will never know about. (from 'Celestial Navigation')