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She had a moment of engulfing sadness about this, about the way that even when we’re living through tragedy, the language we reach for, the only language available to us, is secondhand.
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The idea that there were documents and recordings that couldn't be found online had never really occurred to her.
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Every choice we make is either a growth choice or a fear choice.
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To sit across the table and talk with someone you love is itself a complex engagement, with an exhaustingly subtle flow of information; to go to bed with someone--to carry your conversation into the realm of the body, a realm of insecurity and fear as well as pleasure--was always fraught with the sad evidence of how difficult it is to understand another person and make yourself understood.
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We wish for a symmetry of feeling, but we rarely get it. It is painful to be the one who loves more, and painful to be the one who loves less.
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Take the risk that you’ll end up regretting your speech, because it’s better than regretting your silence.
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Knowledge is always a good thing, even when it makes us unhappy
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There are certain situations in which you can't convey what you mean. Words don't always work.
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The moments of beauty, the moments when you feel blessed, are only moments; but memory and imagination, treasuring them, can string them together... Everything else passes away; that which you love remains.
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It's foolish to speak of your happiness before you're sure you have it.
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I have this old-fashioned idea that art and commerce are at war.
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She’d once heard that when you have heart surgery—your chest sawed open, your ribs cracked, the action of your heart replaced for hours by the action of a machine—the suffering you undergo for the next few months, that peculiarly spiritual sorrow, is the sorrow of a body in mourning for itself, a body that believes it has died.
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Coincidence. But the eagerness to find meaning in such coincidences is love.
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We congratulate ourselves on having abandoned our vices, when it is they who have abandoned us.