“Love, I thought to myself abstractedly. Not 'This is love' or 'Is this love?' Not a sentence, not a certainty, not a thought with moving parts or direction. Just love, all of it, as it is. Whether it's enough or not. Wthether it's real or we're making it up. However shoddy it gets, or bent out of shape. It's still extraordinary. However foolish, however vain. However badly it ends. Love.”

“We like to say that love is what unites us; however it's fear that we all share.”

“Surely it's better to love others, however messy and imperfect the involvement, than to allow one's capacity for love to harden.”

“Such is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion, however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object of its interest.”

“Life is "heavy" is it not? However, we lighten it with our love of it... and I have found that whether returned or no... that love is always worth it. It is the loving that is the gift of life, and whether bittersweet from loss, or returned in another's eyes, we are blessed to have had its presence in our lives...”

“Real love, after all, was worth the price you paid, however briefly it might last.”