Clare on Henry:Do you ever wonder if I'm real? Maybe I'm dreaming of you. Maybe you're dreaming of me; maybe we only exist in each other's dreams and every morning when we wake up we forget all about...
But you make me happy. It's living up to being happy that's the difficult part.
But you know: you know that if I could have stayed, if I could have gone on, that I would have clutched every second: whatever it was, this death, you know that it came and took me, like a child carri...
But don't you think that it's better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?
As I stand in the elevator, dazed, I realise that a massive winning lottery ticket chunk of my future has somehow found me here in the present, and I start to laugh. I cross the lobby, and as I run do...
As I penetrate Clare she looks at me and I think I don’t exist and a second later she turns her head and sees me. She cries out, not loudly, and looks back at me, above her, in her. Then she remembers...
All of our laments could not add a single second to her life, not one additional beat of the heart, nor a breath.
He said it quietly but with such intensity that Valentina fell in love with him, though she had no name for the feeling and nothing to compare it to.
And we laugh, and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.
You didn’t answer my question. I asked you about being in love. You said what it was like when your wife went away.Martin sat down again. How young she is. When we were that young we invented the worl...
What is more basic than the need to be known? It is the entirety of intimacy, the elixir of love, this knowing.
The wedding is tomorrow, but as the groom I don’t seem to have too many responsibilities. Be there; that’s the main item on my To Do list.
The space that I can call mine.. is so small that my ideas have become small. I am like a caterpillar in a cocoon of paper; all around me are sketches for sculptures, small drawings that seem like mot...
The hell with virtue. I've figured out the mechanics of her dress.
The compelling thing about making art - or making anything, I suppose - is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances.
Sometimes a thing is---too much---and it has to be isolated put away.
It wasn't quite raining, but it wasn't exactly not raining either. She heard the driver squelching along the path behind her.
In the past, we can only do what we did, and we can only be there if we were there.
I still feel like a castaway, th elast of a once numerous species. It was as though Robinson Crusoe discovered the telltale footprint on the beach and then realized that it was his own. Myself, small...
I love you, always. Time is nothing. Henry