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Love is like a tree; it shoots of itself; it sends its deep roots through all our being, and often continues to flourish over a heart in ruins...It is never stronger than when it is most unreasonable.

I bear the dungeon within me; within me is winter, ice, and despair; I have darkness in my soul.

Architecture is dethroned. The stone letters of Orpheus will be succeeded by the lead letters of Gutenberg. The book will kill the building. "This will kill that".

Paris, viewed from the towers of Notre Dame in the cool dawn of a summer morning, is a delectable and a magnificent sight; and the Paris of that period must have been eminently so.

"The children become the adults. It's too beautiful to bear-and too much to be worthy of."

The premeditation of death is a fore-thinking of liberty. He who hath learned to die, hath unlearned to serve.

“How can I mourn my one loss amid such an abundance of death? My one man, who I have reason to believe did not suffer at his ending.”

“Any woman can get any man, if she's dogged enough and doesn't love him too much.”

Death is inevitable for those who are born; for those who are dead birth is just as certain. Therefore you must not grieve for what is ineluctable.

Writing is a sickness only cured by writing. That's the impossible part.

It's hard to live on hope. Living on hope you get thin and tired. Hope pares you away from the inside. You're all the time living in the future.

We tell stories. We tell stories to pass the time, to leave the world for a while, or go more deeply into it. We tell stories to heal the pain of living.

The world he describes, empty of wild creatures and places, overrun instead by people and their agriculture, is a dying world.

There are languages without words and violence is one of them.

It's a miracle to realize that somebody loves you.

Love is both a sacrifice and a balancing act

Conflicted but glad to spend some time with Haruf after a while…

Sometimes the past is so heavy, it's all you can carry.

Totally hooked. Can't stop turning pages.
""Here is the nature of life, we must love things with our whole selves knowing they will die."

She thought it was part of the hardship of her life that there was laid upon her the burthen of larger wants than others seemed to feel – that she had to endure this wide hopeless yearning for that something, whatever it was, that was greatest and best on this earth.

Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.

Those bitter sorrows of childhood!-- when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

the ocean turned our eyes gray
with looking

"These moments of being are embedded in many more moments of non-being."

"that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.”

"The tragedy of her death was not that it made one, now and then and very intensely, unhappy. It was that it made her unreal; and us solemn, and self-conscious. We were made to act parts that we did not feel; to fumble for words that we did not know. It obscured, it dulled"

The more important the memory, the more we find ourselves revisiting it. But in doing so, the details can begin to evade us.

“Somewhere, a clock ticks. Sand pours through the hourglass. I am no longer interested in the stories but rather, what is underneath the stories: the soft, pulsating thing that is true.”

“This was the skin that protected you from the world—this loving of another person you shared your life with.”