“Everyday, every hour, I have held you close in my heart.”
“...you canʹt
always choose how you love a person. Love isnʹt logical or
fair. It just happens.”
“Her joy with him was like nothing she had ever experienced. His love for her felt like a miracle.”
“I'm sorry that you're still hurting.”
“He leaned over her, the sun behind his head making a halo of gold, his face lit by the reflections off the water.”
“He had told her he would love her forever, but he could not stay with her. From that time on, she couldn't see his glow or hear his voice in her head. Could he still hear her? Was he even aware of her existence?”
“Its just the anniversary, she wanted to tell him. Its just this time of the year stirring up these memories. Everything will be all right. But she couldn't say that, because she wasn't sure it was true.”
“Was he still, somehow, watching over her?”
“Aun en la muerte, te quiero junto a mi.”
“No puedes elegir siempre como amar a una persona. El amor no es lógico o justo. Sólo pasa.”
“Cada día, cada hora, te he mantenido cerca de mi corazón.”
“Recordar puede ser tan doloroso cómo no recordar.”
“La manera en que Tristan la hacía reír, la manera en que la había atraído a su vida, la manera en que la había deleitado con su música - ¿Como podría alguna vez dejar su ansia de él?”
“Guy kept his eyes on her. "I brought you some flowers." He held a bouquet wrapped in florist paper behind him, as if uncertain about offering it.
Ivy smiled and stood up, holding out her hands. "Oh!" She looked from the roses to Guy, tears stinging her eyes. "They're lavender."
"I did the wrong thing," Guy said, quickly pulling them away.
Ivy reached for the flowers, her hands catching and holding his. "No! No, they're perfect." She looked into his eyes. "How did you know that--that I love lavender roses?"
He shrugged. "They just seemed right for you.”
“You can't just plan a moment when things get back on track, just as you can't plan the moment you lose your way in the first place.”
“We got passes, till midnight after the parade. I met Muriel at the Biltmore at seven. Two drinks, two drugstore tuna-fish sandwiches, then a movie she wanted to see, something with Greer Garson in it. I looked at her several times in the dark when Greer Garson’s son’s plane was missing in action. Her mouth was opened. Absorbed, worried. The identification with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer tragedy complete. I felt awe and happiness. How I love and need her undiscriminating heart. She looked over at me when the children in the picture brought in the kitten to show to their mother. M. loved the kitten and wanted me to love it. Even in the dark, I could sense that she felt the usual estrangement from me when I don’t automatically love what she loves. Later, when we were having a drink at the station, she asked me if I didn’t think that kitten was ‘rather nice.’ She doesn’t use the word ‘cute’ any more. When did I ever frighten her out of her normal vocabulary? Bore that I am, I mentioned R. H. Blyth’s definition of sentimentality: that we are being sentimental when we give to a thing more tenderness than God gives to it. I said (sententiously?) that God undoubtedly loves kittens, but not, in all probability, with Technicolor bootees on their paws. He leaves that creative touch to script writers. M. thought this over, seemed to agree with me, but the ‘knowledge’ wasn’t too very welcome. She sat stirring her drink and feeling unclose to me. She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply because it isn’t as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.”
“She sat down on a wooden bench that was bolted to the floor . . . in case some high school hooligan like herself decided to make off with it, she supposed.”
“Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour, after all.”
“Robin was disposed to feel desperately sorry for anyone with a less fortunate love life than her own – if desperate pity could describe the exquisite pleasure she actually felt at the thought of her own comparative paradise.”
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