What separates us from the animals, what separates us from the chaos, is our ability to mourn people we’ve never met.

But there was something about you that made me think of sparks and motion.

She has been hanging on to the hope of him for so long that she doesn't realize there isn't anything left to hope for.

Falling in love with someone doesn’t mean you know any better how they feel. It only means you know how you feel.

Here," she said. "This is for you." "I didn't really get you anything," I sputtered. "I mean, I didn't know that you were going to be here, and--" "Don't worry. It's your embarrassment at not having the thought that counts.

I hope that George doesn't internalize her scare tactics. I want to argue with her, tell her that "sins of the flesh" is just a control mechanism -- if you demonize a person's pleasure, then you can control his or her life. I can't say how many times this tool has been wielded against me, in a variety of forms. But I see no sin in a kiss. I only see sin in the condemnation.

Trying to write about love is ultimately like trying to have a dictionary represent life. No matter how many words there are, there will never be enough.