“Love is rather impotent and pitiful: My father must have told me a million times how much he loved me, but that emotion - assuming it was even real - hardly had the strength to counter the many other acts of wrong he committed against me. Contrary to romance novels and the love-conquers-all mentality that even those of us who grow up in an era of divorce are - in response to some atavistic instinct - still raised to believe, love is always a product and a victim of circumstances. It is fragile and small. ”
“And how can it be he's so in love with me? To grow up without love, and still have so much inside?”
“Love. It has always seemed to me that love is a combination of lust and pity. (...) I've got to have some feelings of pity for a girl to love her. She's got to have a fragile quality of some sort.”
“Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he even loves me.”
“Some of the books I'd read had told me that love is fleeting; some of the other books I'd read had told me that love is eternal. But they were wrong. Love isn't either of those things. Love is not wanting the thing you love to ever end.”
“He loves me, he loves me not. How many flowers must I kill before he loves me?” ~He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not”