The tale is often wiser than the teller.

Imagine it. Use all your strength and imagine it exactly. And it will happen that way.

What if...? A question we ask to hurt ourselves.

Love is blind, they say--but isn't it more that love makes us see too much? Isn't it more that love floods our brain with sights and sounds, so that everything looks bigger, brighter, more lovely than ever before?

People take what they need from the stories they hear. The tale is often wiser than the teller.

We carry on. We have ourselves and we carry on- in spite of our losses and mistakes and women, I think, have more than most. We are good secret-keepers. We can tie weights to out guilt and passions, and hatred and deceitfulness, and let them sink down, so that you'd never know they existed at all. But we know. I can count all mine.

But maybe the best thing I learnt was this: that we cannot know a person's soul and nature until we've sat beside them, and talked.