A Certain Bohemian, Good-witch Sort Of Charm

I Remember One Morning Getting Up At Dawn, There Was Such A Sense Of Possibility. You Know, That Feeling? And I Remember Thinking To Myself: So, This Is The Beginning Of Happiness. This Is Where It Starts. And Of Course There Will Always Be More. It Never Occurred To Me It Wasn't The Beginning. It Was Happiness. It Was The Moment. Right Then.

You Cannot Find Peace By Avoiding Life, Leonard.

What A Thrill, What A Shock, To Be Alive On A Morning In June, Prosperous, Almost Scandalously Privileged, With A Simple Errand To Run.

Maybe It’s Not, In The End, The Virtues Of Others That So Wrenches Our Hearts As It Is The Sense Of Almost Unbearably Poignant Recognition When We See Them At Their Most Base, In Their Sorrow And Gluttony And Foolishness. You Need The Virtues, Too—some Sort Of Virtues—but We Don’t Care About Emma Bovary Or Anna Karenina Or Raskolnikov Because They’re Good. We Care About Them Because They’re Not Admirable, Because They’re Us, And Because Great Writers Have Forgiven Them For It.

People Are More Than You Think They Are. And They're Less, As Well. The Trick Lies In Negotiating Your Way Between The Two.