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There's nothing you could have done that would cause me to cease loving either of you. Will is myself, my own soul, and if I am not to have the keeping of your heart, then there is not other I would rather have that honor. ↗
Leif gripped Benny's shoulders to hold him back, but he broke free and chased the truck, pumping his tiny arms and legs with great furry. "I love you!" he called out, when he was just ten feet away. I gripped the metal bars, my throat choked with emotion. "I love you!" Silas cried, as he followed. They both kept after us, sprinting wildly behind the cage. I watched their mouths moving, saying those words over and again, as the truck bounded through the woods and their small bodies disappeared, unreachable, behind the trees. ↗
#love
Here we are then, I was thinking, in a war to the finish between everything I love and everything I hate. Fine. We will win and they will lose. A pity that we let them pick the time and place of the challenge, but we can and we will make up for that. ↗
Your mother hollers that you’re going to miss the bus. She can see it coming down the street. You don’t stop and hug her and tell her you love her. You don’t thank her for being a good, kind, patient mother. Of course not -- you vault down down the stairs and make a run for the corner. Only if it’s the last time you’ll ever see your mother, you sort of start to wish you’d stopped and did those things. Maybe even missed the bus. But the bus was barreling down our street so I ran. ↗
Samo si mene imao, osim onih grobova kod kuće, sad više nikog nemamo ni ti ni ja, ti si mene izgubio prije nego ja tebe, ili možda nisi, možda si mislio da stojim pred ovom okovanom kapijom, kao što bi ti stajao zbog mene, možda si se do posljednjeg časa nadao da ću ti pomoći, i kamo sreće da si mi toliko vjerovao, ne bi te uhvatio strah od konačne samoće, kad nas svi napuste. A ako si sve znao, neka mi Bog pomogne. ↗
Sometimes I think maybe they were right all along, the people on the other side in Zombieland. Maybe it would be better if we didn't love. If we didn't lose either. If we didn't get our hearts stomped on, shattered: if we didn't have to patch and repatch until we're like Frankenstein monsters, all sewn together and bound up by who knows what. If we could just float along, like snow. But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosions of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow? ↗
Kilmartin wrote a highly amusing and illuminating account of his experience as a Proust revisionist, which appeared in the first issue of Ben Sonnenberg's quarterly Grand Street in the autumn of 1981. The essay opened with a kind of encouragement: 'There used to be a story that discerning Frenchmen preferred to read Marcel Proust in English on the grounds that the prose of A la recherche du temps perdu was deeply un-French and heavily influenced by English writers such as Ruskin.' I cling to this even though Kilmartin thought it to be ridiculous Parisian snobbery; I shall never be able to read Proust in French, and one's opportunities for outfacing Gallic self-regard are relatively scarce. ↗
And in thy best consideration check This hideous rashness. Answer my life my judgement Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least, Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sounds Reverb no hollowness. ↗
