Nothing is irreversible except dying.

Love meant something to her, she dreamt of it, thought of it, wrote of it. It was the one thing in life that had eluded her completely.

People do strange things sometimes, when they feel hopeless.

What’s ready? Was Steinback ready? Hemingway? Shakespeare? Dickens? Jane Austen? They just did it, didn’t they?

Feelings aren't sensible. Sometimes you fall in love with people who don't make sense. And the ones who do make sense turn out to be the wrong ones.

You don’t know how lucky you are, my dear. Don’t waste it with regrets of the places and people you have lost. You have a lifetime to fill, so many good times and good years and great people ahead of you. You must rush to meet it.

I think people face that in any artistic field, this idea of: oh, I could do that, if I had the time.