The Beautiful American

Love isn’t really about what we think of the other person, but how we feel about ourselves when we are with that person.

That’s the problem with the finite. You can open only one door at a time, and you’ll never know what was behind the door you didn’t open.

I was happy, and nothing in the world can make you oblivious to your surroundings like happiness.

Love was love, but art was art and though he mixed the two a little, he never confused them.

sillage, what remains when all else has left. “Come on,