Disgust is so reassuring; it feels like a moral proof.

Unhappiness is caused when we cannot let go of our memories.

A woman's love for a man is half animal passion and half hate. The more a woman loves a man, the more she hates him.

What i literally cannot describe is the hollowness in my lungs when i am out of her presence. It is as if i were dying from the want of her.

THERE IS NO mystery to happiness. Unhappy men are alike. Some wound they suffered long ago, some wish denied, some blow to pride, some kindling spark of love put out by scorn--or worse, indifference--cleaves to them, or they to it, and so they live each day within a shroud of yesterdays. The happy man does not look back. He doesn't look ahead. He lives in the present.

But there's the rub. The present can never deliver one thing: meaning. The way of happiness and meaning are not the same. To find happiness, a man need only live in the moment; he need only live for the moment. But if he wants meaning--the meaning of his dreams, his secrets, his life--a man must reinhabit his past, however dark, and live for the future, however uncertain. Thus nature dangles happiness and meaning before us all, insisting only that we choose between them.

Disgust is so reassuring; it feels like a moral proof.