“Women are strange little beasts,' he said to Dr. Coutras. 'You can treat them like dogs, you can beat them till your arm aches, and still they love you.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'Of course, it is one of the most absurd illusions of Christianity that they have souls.”

“Love them all," said Renoir. "That is the secret, young man. Love them all." The painter let go of his arm and shrugged. "Then, even if your paintings are shit, you will have loved them all.”

“And the moment you care that much, a man has you. He owns a little piece of your soul, and he can beat you to death with it.”

“How can you think it's cool when he calls you his bitch, but then get upset when he treats you like a dog?”

“He said, 'Charlie, how would you treat people if you knew you didn't have to fix them? If you knew that was God's job, and all He was asking of you was show them His love, maybe tell them some things He wanted them to know?”

“She didn't understand that. "How can anyone be afraid of love?""How can they not?" His face was completely aghast. "When you love someone... truly love them, friend or lover, you lay your heart open to them. You give them a part of yourself that you give to no one else, and you let them inside a part of you that only they can hurt—you literally hand them the razor with a map of where to cut deepest and most painfully on your heart and soul. And when they do strike, it's crippling—like having your heart carved out. It leaves you naked and exposed, wondering what you did to make them want to hurt you so badly when all you did was love them. What is so wrong with you that no one can keep faith with you? That no one can love you? To have it happen once is bad enough... but to have it repeated? Who in their right mind would not be terrified of that?”