She will never mention to Leonard that she'd planned on fleeing, even for a few hours. As if he were the one in need of care and comfort — as if he w… - Michael Cunningham

We always worry about the wrong things, don't we?

. . . he felt himself entering a moment so real he could only run toward it, shouting.

We'd hoped vaguely to fall in love but hadn't worried much about it, because we'd thought we had all the time in the world. Love had seemed so final and so dull — love was what ruined our parents. Love had delivered them to a life of mortgage payments and household repairs; to unglamorous jobs and the flourescent aisles of a supermarket at two in the afternoon. We'd hoped for love of a different kind, love that knew and forgave our human frailty but did not miniaturize our grander ideas of ourselves. It sounded possible. If we didn't rush or grab, if we didn't panic, a love both challenging and nurturing might appear. If the person was imaginable, then the person could exist.