Life is hard. It is. And it's like, I don't want anybody feeling any pain.

The greatest pleasures are only narrowly separated from disgust.

You call it madness but I call it love.

He glared at Lucian in the manner of birds, first peering through one eye and then turning his head to peer through the other, apparently finding both views equally loathsome.

Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Wait -- let me back in!... Let me in! Let me in! Let me in! Wait -- let me back out!

I don't need to write. Madness or suicide are other options, though not nearly as compelling. But I want to create; I hope to create worlds in my own image, admittedly a self-centered plan. I want...

Romanticism in loneliness is a true romanticism

You could always call her secretive, masking her feelings beautifully lest anyone intrude into her inmost realm of hidden thoughts. It was a defense Urmila had evolved since childhood.

There is no more lively sensation than that of pain; its impressions are certain and dependable, they never deceive as may those of the pleasure women perpetually feign and almost never experience.

... it's always somebody's fault - I blame you for my helpless love - do you think I chose this? Your beauty compelled me...

From long experience she knew that she wore her loneliness like armor. Very few people ever recognized it for what it was. To the casual observer it looked very much like arrogance. Sometimes it was.

WHY did she do this? She was a terrible drunk texter. All the things she wanted to say to people during the day came out at night, like a vampire.

I strike fear into you because I am a man?" "It isn't funny." "I do not laugh. It is a sad thing, yes, that your husband is a man. A very terrible thing.

You do not get to choose who you love.

Septimus has been working too hard - that was all she could say to her own mother. To love makes one solitary, she thought.

He wanted desperately to love her, to be able to make her happy, to be a family with her and their children. He wanted the dream - home, wife, children, love, happiness. Not fleetingly - gone almost...

The movie I was working on, "Cleopatra", it's about how destructive a force love can be. But maybe that's what every story is about.

Love is universal migraine, A bright stain on the vision Blotting out reason. Symptoms of true love Are leanness, jealousy, Laggard dawns; Are omens and nightmares - Listening for a knock, Waiting for...

"To a gargoyle on the ramparts of Notre Dame as Esmeralda rides off with Gringoire Quasimodo says, 'Why was I not made of stone like thee?'"

...always felt the pain of her friends so keenly that she could not speak easy, fluent words of comforting. Besides, she remembered how well-meant speeches had hurt her in her own sorrow and was...

almost fanatically, began to see another man, and although she still clung on to Williams for his money, it was quite obvious to him that she didn't love him

Love. Love wasn't sweet and light, it was visceral and overpowering. Love wasn't patient, love wasn't kind. Love was ferocious, love knew how to play dirty.

He could be ruined again and again by hope, but he would never be capable of belief.

Maybe this is how I'll go, in a fit of laughter, what could be better, laughing and crying, laughing and singing, laughing so as to forget that I am alone, that it is the end of my life, that death is...

women never learn to dispense with the sentimental motive in their judgments of men.

Read it. But later that fall he seemed to have second thoughts about cooperating and, though I didn't know it, was hit

The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that...