An average of seventy-four species become extinct every day, which was one good reason but not the only one to hold someone's hand.

She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence.

Even now, all possible feelings do not yet exist, there are still those that lie beyond our capacity and our imagination. From time to time, when a piece of music no one has ever written or a painting no one has ever painted, or something else impossible to predict, fathom or yet describe takes place, a new feeling enters the world. And then, for the millionth time in the history of feeling, the heart surges and absorbs the impact.

And he isn't crying for her, not for his grandma, he's crying for himself: that he: too, is going to die one day. And before that his friends wil die, and the friends of his friends, and, as time passes, the children of his friends, and, if his fate is truly bitter, his own children. (58)

Life in general in my experience gets deeper and deeper, more and more profound, more and more complex, the older one gets.

One of us had loved the other more perfectly, had watched the other more closely, and one of us listened and the other hadn’t, and one of us held on to the ambition of the one idea far longer than was reasonable, whereas the other, passing a garbage can one night, had casually thrown it away.

Then he almost but didn't say the two sentence he'd been meaning to say for years: part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you