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It is strange how we hold onto the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures.
Ally Condie, Matched
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The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is the art’s aim.
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
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Romance takes place in the middle distance. Romance is looking at yourself through a window clouded with dew. Romance means leaving things out: where life grunts and snuffles, romance only sighs.
Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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I love you more in that I believe you have liked me for my own sake and nothing else – I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
John Keats, Letter to Fanny Brawne, 8 July 1819
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I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
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Don’t give me a chapter and a verse today, please, she says. I don’t have the strength for it, I’m too limp. I’m wilting.
Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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I’m tired, tired of being enclosed here. I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there; not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart; but really with it, and in it.
Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
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Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.
Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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‘Being in love” flooded them. They became part of that real but penetrating and exciting universe which is the world seen through the eyes of love. The sky stuck to them; the birds sang through them… Life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it there, with a dash on the beach.
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
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The art of love itself has been described as the little death, and lovers sometimes experience too the little peace.
Graham Greene, The End of the Affair
