In one split second I saw everything I could be, everything I want to be. And all that I'm not.

I've no use for talking, would just as soon store paper clips in my mouth.

I could step out of this sad life like it's an old sorry dress.

The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?

This is it--what all the hoopla is about, what Wuthering Heights is about--it all boils down to this feeling rushing through me in this moment with Joe as our mouths refuse to part. Who knew all this time I was one kiss away from being Cathy and Juliet and Elizabeth Bennet and Lady Chatterley!?

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

Grief and love are conjoined, you don't get one without the other. All I can do is love her, and love the world, emulate her by living with daring and spirit and joy.