It seems to me that on one page I recognized a portion of an old diary of mine which mysteriously disappeared shortly after my marriage, and, also, scraps of letters which, though considerably edited, sound to me vaguely familiar. In fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (I believe that is how he spells his name) seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.

Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.

It's terrible to allow conventional habits to gain a hold on a whole household; to eat, sleep and live by clock ticks.

Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure ... another chance in life.

Maybe other people's ideas of us are truer than our own.

Being in love, she concluded, is simply a presentation of our pasts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone.

She quietly expected great things to happen to her, and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.