Never say anything that doesn't improve on silence.

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

She was calm and quiet now with knowing what she had always known, what neither her parents nor Aunt Claire nor Frank nor anyone else had ever had to teach her: that if you wanted something to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone.

She just happened to feel like it. Wasn’t that after all, the only reason there was? Had she ever had a less selfish, more complicated reason for doing anything in her life?

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

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

Know what we did, Lucy? You and me? We spent our whole lives yearning. Isn't that the God damndest thing?