If you have to ask, you've never been in love. More than that, you've never had your feelings hurt by the one you want to trust and cherish you most of all.

How did you explain a thing it had not occurred to you to question? A thing you just knew, clear through to your soul?

True love comes when it will, not when it's called.

What do you know about yourself? What are your stories? The ones you tell yourself, and the ones told by others. All of us begin somewhere. Though I suppose the truth is that we begin more than once; we begin many times. Over and over, we start our own tales, compose our own stories, whether our lives are short or long. Until at last all our beginnings come down to just one end, and the tale of who we are is done.

I'm sorry I never really believed," I said. "Not the way Jack did." "It doesn't make any difference," my mother replied. Her eyes focused on the beanstalk for a moment, then returned to mine. "You believe now. Be safe and smart up there, my Gen. Be yourself." Before I could answer, my mother turned away and walked quickly toward the house. I turned to face the beanstalk. There is no going back now, I thought. For better or worse, there was only going forward. There was only going up. Seizing the trunk of the beanstalk with both hands, I pushed off from the World Below and began to climb.

Even the most straightforward of paths could turn out to be more complicated than it seemd at first.

Love cannot thrive simply by being offered. Sooner or later it must be accepted and reciprocated. It must be seen for what it is and nourished according to its needs, or it will die.