The best of a book is not the thought which it contains, but the thought which it suggests; just as the charm of music dwells not in the tones but in the echoes of our hearts.
I love you. I don’t know what that means to anybody else, but to me in this moment, it means that I care about your feelings. When you are happy, I grin from ear to ear, grateful to bask in the glow of your smile, and when you are sad, I wish I could disappear inside of you and replace every bad thought with a description of how I see you. It is hard to not let this slip out of my mouth when I look at you, especially when we are lying next to each other in your bed - your fingers running though my hair and your lips on my forehead. It is sad how these three words can ruin things between people. They put all of their faith into the weight of them, but forget to nurture their love. I don’t want that to happen to us, dear. Granted, I cannot foresee what the future will bring - perhaps all of this will one day be a long forgotten memory that hurts each time either of us thinks about it. But I know that I look at what I have with you like a garden I must tend to daily. I keep the promise of the flowers that will bloom high beneath the light of our love in my mind when I lie awake at night, lonely and wondering when we will be able to see each other next. Because I love you, dear, and for whatever that’s worth, I will relish in my dirt-covered knees because you are worth picking weeds for. You are worth it all.
To be in love is to surpass one’s self.
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The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde
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Loss is more than just death, and grief is the gray shape-shifter of emotion.
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The Storyteller, Jodi Picoult
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I can’t tell you just how wonderful she is. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want any one to know.
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F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (via blindsideddd)
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She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.
I can read every book ever written about inspiration, about virtue, about sacrifice, but I render them moot if I don’t answer their intrinsic calls to action.
You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.
“I’m in love with you,” he said quietly.
“Augustus,” I said.
“I am,” he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you.”
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference.
Don’t you understand? You mean more to me than anything in this world.
Heroes were ordinary people who knew that even if their own lives were impossibly knotted, they could untangle someone else’s. And maybe that one act could lead someone to rescue you right back.
Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter.
