“I miss being a student," said Abdul Wahid. "I miss the passionate discussions with my friends, and most of all the hours among the books.”

“I do not think you would be so quick to approve if it was your son," he said. The Major frowned as he tried to quell the immediate recognition that the young man was right. He fumbled for a reply that would be true but also helpful. "I do not mean to offend you," added Abdul Wahid."Not at all," said the Major. "You are not wrong—at least, in the abstract. I would be unhappy to think of my son becoming entangled in such a way and any people, including myself, may be guilty of a certain smug feeling that it would never happen in our families.""I thought so," said Abdul Wahid with a grimace."Now, don’t you get offended, either," said the Major. "What I’m trying to say is that I think that is how everyone feels in the abstract. But then life hands you something concrete—something concrete like little George—and abstracts have to go out the window.”

“I later realized that this is my view of passion: It is rooted in genuine friendship. Chemistry may be two strangers exchanging smoldering looks—but passion has to be able to survive at least a twenty-minute conversation!”

“You are not the first man to miss a woman's more subtle communication . . . They think they are waving when we see only the calm sea, and pretty soon everybody drowns.”

“I am to be converted to the joys of knitting,' said Mrs. Ali, smiling at the Major.'My condolences,' he said.”

“Passion is all very well, but it wouldn't do to spill the tea.”

“But it's not enough to be in love. It's about how you spend your days, what you do together, who you choose as friends, and most of all it's what work you do ... Better to break both our hearts now than watch them wither away over time.”