“How about we talk about your love life instead?" "Why? Are you in the mood to be depressed?”

“Life is about love. It's about whom you love and whom you hurt. Life's about how you love yourself and how you hurt yourself. Life's about how you love and hurt the people close to you. Life is about how you love and hurt the people who just cross your path for a moment. Life is about love.”

“There’s always something to talk about, even if you talk about how there is nothing to talk about. Of course, I’m talking about love.”

“Why not? Love isn’t about perfection or beauty. It’s not about how good you look in a bikini, or how perfect your skin is. Love is about…about…” He fumbled for words. “About needing that certain someone in your life—that someone who makes you feel whole. It’s helping the person you love when they need a hand to stand straight. Love is never giving up on the person you care about.”

“So this is supposed to be the how, and when, and why, and what or reading - about the way that, when reading is going well, one book leads to another and to another, a paper trail of theme and meaning; and how, when it's going badly, when books don't stick or take, when your mood and the mood of the book are fighting like cats, you'd rather do anything but attempt the next paragraph, or reread the last one for the tenth time. "We talked about books," says a character in Charles Baxter's wonderful Feast of Love, "how boring they were to read, but how you loved them anyway. Anyone who hasn't felt like that isn't owning up.”

“And what about tomorrow then? And all the tomorrows to come? Why can't we talk about it? Why can't we ever talk about it?”