It Was Like Him, Too, To Love

It Was Like Him, Too, To Love Her And Admit To It Before He Knew If She Loved Him. Maybe Only Mortals Expected To Barter Their Hearts.

We're All Immortal Until We Die.

She Lifted Her Head. "it's Easier," She Said, Slowly, "to Be Angry On Someone Else's Behalf Than On My Own. And Yet I Find I Have A Well Of Anger In Me, That I Have Been Filling For Years From My Own Hurts. If I Spill It Out In Defense Of Another, I Can Deny It's Mine.

Sex Without Love Is Like A Goddamn Business Transaction. And Sometimes Both Parties Feel As If They Got A Good Deal, But That Doesn't Make It Any Less So.

It Occurs To Me To Wonder: Do I Believe In Any God, Or Even Positively Not Believe, As James Does? I Believe In Systems And Methods. I Believe In The Beauties Of Philosophy And Poetry. I Believe That The Work We Do And Leave Behind Us Is Our Afterlife; And I Believe That History Lies, But Sometimes So Well That I Can't Bring Myself To Resent It. I Believe That Truth Is Beauty, But Not, I'm Afraid, The Reverse. It Doesn't Seem Sufficient To Sustain One In Life's Rigorous Moments. Perhaps I Shall Embrace Islam. Its Standards For Poetry Seem Very High.