And that's when he finally tells me his name is Ernest. I'm thinking of giving it away, though. Ernest is so dull, and Hemingway? Who wants a Hemingway?

She was also incredibly confident, with a way of moving and talking that communicated that she didn't need anyone to tell her she was beautiful or worthwhile.

Knowing he was suffering pained me. That’s the way love tangles you up. I couldn’t stop loving him, and couldn’t shut off the feelings of wanting to care for him— but I also didn’t have to run to answer his letters. I was hurting, too, and no one was running to me.

Dogs are easy. If their tails are up and their eyes are soft, you're in.

But in the end, fighting for a love that was already gone felt like trying to live in the ruins of a lost city.

You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through.

But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.