Why is it every other person you meet says they're an artist? A real artist doesn't need to gas on about it, he doesn't have time. He does his work and sweats it out in silence, and no one can help him at all.

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

Nothing hurts if you don't let it.

At twenty-eight I'd had a handful of beaux, but had only been in love once, and that had been awful enough to make me doubt men and myself for a good long while.

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?

All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.

And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.