She made you decent, and in return you made her so happy

The sad fact is that I love Dickens and Donne and Keats and Eliot and Forster and Conrad and Fitzgerald and Kafka and Wilde and Orwell and Waugh and Marvell and Greene and Sterne and Shakespeare and Webster and Swift and Yeats and Joyce and Hardy, really, really love them. It’s just that they don’t love me back.

A moment passed, perhaps half a second when their faces said what they felt, and then Emma was smiling, laughing, her arms around his neck.

I applied for the University of Life. Didn't get the grades.

No, friends were like clothes: fine while they lasted but eventually they wore thin or you grew out of them.

As new dawns go, this one is depressingly like the old dawn.

I want my best friend back, she thinks, because without him nothing is good and nothing is right.