Perhaps this is an illusion all lovers have about themselves: that they escape both category and description.
Would you rather love the more, and suffer the more; or love the less, and suffer the less? That is, I think, finally, the only real question.
When I kissed him, it was like jumping off the top of a cliff, every time.
Suddenly, the space between us felt very small.
'We were close' said Lorna softly. 'Very. And then we weren't.'
Love's just too painful a secret to keep.
This is what he does. He makes stories into weapons.
In that split-second I felt she had seen everything. Me, him, the space between us.
We knew we were too young for our bodies.
I thought, If I speak, all this will be true. I knew the words spoken would turn into the truth lived.
I was so grateful that my heart beat by itself because I knew I would never be able to make it work if I had to do it. My heart's independent beats, beats that worked no matter what terrible thing had happened, made me feel tenderness toward my body and my insignificant life.
He gave me two cigarettes and said, Go on girl, set yourself on fire.
I believe in love at first sight. Be careful what you look at.
I understood everyone was walking around with secrets and broken bones and hurtful words that could not be washed away with soap.
My mother was a cup of sugar. You could borrow her anytime.
I try to understand, how was it possible to survive amid this endless experience of dying?
Each time the truth is unbearable.
They died in the basements of the Gestapo, and their courage was known only to the walls. And now, forty years later, I mentally kneel to them.
In war everything happens more quickly: both life and death. In those few years we lived a whole life.
Suffering is a special kind of knowledge.