Dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn't much different, finally, from any other kind of dying.

And do you know a funny thing? I'm almost fifty years old and I've never understood anything in my whole life.

There's never been anything funny about a woman dying for love.

No one forgets the truth; they just get better at lying.

if you wanted to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone.

It haunted him all night, while he slept alone; it was still there in the morning, when he swallowed his coffee and backed down the driveway in the crumpled old Ford. And riding to work, one of the youngest and healthiest passengers on the train, he sat with the look of a man condemned to a very slow, painless death. He felt middle-aged.

Your cowardly self-delusions about “love” when you know as well as I do that there’s never been anything between us but contempt and distrust and a terrible sickly dependence on each other’s weakness- that’s why. That’s why I couldn’t stop laughing about the Inability to Love, and that’s why I can’t stand to let you touch me, and that’s why I’ll never again believe in anything you think, let alone anything you say