All I wanted was what I'd already had. That exultation, that love. It was my one real home; I was a visitor everywhere else.

All I wanted was what I'd already had. That exultation, that love. It was my one real home; I was a visitor everywhere else.

I never felt so large and important as I did when being in love was everything. I saw you walking a foot above the earth and I remembered that was where I used to walk.

I thought of my mother (...). Freud wrote that no man is secure in the love of his mother can ever be a failure. Well, I had been busy proving that theory wrong.

No pain could match the emptiness of separation, no agony rivaled the unreality of not being with her.

The only things I regret, and the only things I'll ever regret are things I didn't do. In the end, that's what we mourn. The paths we didn't take. The people we didn't touch.

The trouble with excuses, however, is that they become inevitably difficult to believe after they’ve been used a couple of times.