He loved her, and he would love her until the day he was too old for loving — but he could not have her. So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved … - F. Scott Fitzgerald

So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness.

I learned a little of beauty - enough to know that it had nothing to do with truth - and I found, moreover, that there was no great literary tradition; there was only the tradition of the eventful death of every literary tradition.

I hope I haven't given you the impression that I consider kissing intrinsically irrational.

She was beautiful, but not like those girls in magazines. She was beautiful, for the way she thought. She was beautiful, for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No, she wasn't beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful, deep down to her soul. She is beautiful.