Sublime

Then he smiled fondly, as if at a memory; it occurred to him that he was nearly sixty years old and that he ought to be beyond the force of such passion, of such love. But he was not beyond it, he knew, and would never be. Beneath the numbness, the indifference, the removal, it was there, intense and steady; it had always been there. In his youth h

‘You must think me mad,’ she said, ‘to still love a boy I last saw ten years ago. But it doesn’t make any difference, not to me.’ ‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘Distance separates you from him, and if the units of distance were miles and not years, nobody would think it strange

A biographer of the novelist E. M. Forster wrote, “To speak to him was to be seduced by an inverse charisma, a sense of being listened to with such intensity that you had to be your most honest, sharpest, and best self.”

“No one ever likes the right person,” I say.

mien,

it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”

one’s different, one’s bound to be lonely.

‘Because fear kills everything,’ Mo had once told her. ‘Your mind, your heart, your imagination.’ —CORNELIA FUNKE, Inkheart