“He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again and would go to his grave without them.”
The Book Thief
“He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again and would go to his grave without them.”
The Book Thief
I sit before flowershoping they will train me in theartof opening up.I stand on mountain topsbelievingthat avalanches will teach me tolet go.I knownothingbut I am here to learn.
“The Buddhists say if you meet somebody and your heart pounds, your hands shake, your knees go weak, that’s not the one. When you meet your ‘soulmate’ you’ll feel calm. No anxiety, no agitation.”
My books (which do not know that I exist) are as much a part of me as this visage, with its grey hair at the temples and grey eyes that look for vanity in glass surfaces and wonderingly run my curved hand over. And not without some logical bitterness it occurs to me that the essential words that most express me are not in my own writings, but in these books that don’t know who I am. Better that way. The voices of the dead will utter me forever.
She had a strange feelingin the pit of her stomach,like when you’re swimmingand you want to put yourfeet down on somethingsolid, but the water’sdeeper than you thinkand there’s nothing there.
“…The man who has no love for anyone now suffers in its grasp.”
Lament
Never apologise forhow much love youhave to give. Just feelsorry for those who didn’twant any of it.
Her soul was a poem that would never reach paper.
“Sometimes,” said Pooh, “the smallest things take up the most space in your heart.”
Winne the Pooh
It is only with the heartthat one can see rightly;what is essential is invisible to the eye.