Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.

On December 8, 1921, when the Leopoldina set sail for Europe, we were on board. Our life together had finally begun. We held on to each other and looked out at the sea. It was impossibly large and full of beauty and danger in equal parts-and we wanted it all.

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

I knew that I could hate him all I wanted for the way he was hurting me, but I couldn’t ever stop loving him, absolutely, for what he was.

I'd never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.

Happiness is so awfully complicated, but freedom isn't. You're either tied down or you're not.

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