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The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back.

“a pig’s blood for a pig”

But even as I write these words, something inside shouts that there is more. I was somebody before i went under the surgeon’s knife.

poor watch

The burden of his salvation seemed to be on me and I could not endure it.

Somebody, said Jacques, your father or mine, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour—and in the oddest places!—for the lack of it

“Tell me” he said, “What is this thing about time? Why is it better to be late than early? People are always saying, we must wait, we must wait. What are they waiting for?”

“I guess people wait in order to make sure of what they feel”

“In order to make sure!” He turned again to that invisible ally and laughed… He pointed a finger at my heart. “And when you have waited—has it made you sure?”

in constant awe of amazing writers

“It’s the kind of teasing we’ve done for years. A barrier of my own making, because if I don’t tease and annoy her, I’ll accidentally worship her.”

im confused it’s not so enemies to lovers but so cute

Like all lovers, they spoke much of themselves, as if they might thereby understand the world which made them possible.

In his forty-third year William Stoner learned what others, much younger, had learned before him: that the person one loves at first is not the person one loves at last, and that love is not an end but a process through which one person attempts to know another.