Change was not something you waited for, quietly, mutely, in a house by the ocean, nothing would ever change unless we forced it into shape.
action change
A lover exists only in fragments, a dozen or so if the romance is new, a thousand if we're married to him, and out of those fragments our heart constructs an entire person. What we each create, since whatever is missing is filled by our imagination, is the person we wish him to be. The less we know him, of course, the more we love him. And that's why we always remember that first rapturous night when he was a stranger, and why this rapture returns only when he's dead.
death existentialism imagination knowing-someone knowledge memory passion tso-love
How remarkable we are in our ability to hide things from ourselves - our conscious minds only a small portion of our actual minds, jellyfish floating on a vast dark sea of knowing and deciding.
consciousness hiding-things mind secrets
Perhaps love is a minor madness. And as with madness, it's unendurable alone. The one person who can relieve us is of course the sole person we cannot go to: the one we love. So instead we seek out allies, even among strangers and wives, fellow patients who, if they can't touch the edge of our particular sorrow, have felt something that cuts nearly as deep.
alliances allies existentialism madness pain relationships relief sorrow strangers tso-love
When I meet a woman whose energy falters at the first barrier, she seems to fade beside my mother.
inspirational relationships woman
How hollow to have no secrets left; you shake yourself and nothing rattles. You're boneless as an anemone.
existentialism secrets
Does love always form, like a pearl, around the hardened bits of life?
existentialism life precious-things tso-love