You who suffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is to live by it.
My heart is broken. It’s turned to a piece of stone. I’m no good. That’s what’s as bad as anything, that I’m no good anymore.
He had used her up without knowing it, and now it was done. There would be the usual fuss, tears and pleas, screams, recriminations, but all that would not last long. He was an old hand at ending things.
The persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of great passion.
There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I'd like to know.
He looked at her: eyes that had once looked at him with love, now dull and lustreless, lips that had covered his body in soft passionate kisses, now thin and full of tension.
I'm mad about the waste that happens when people who love each other can't even bring themselves to talk.
He repaid her by breaking her fortune, and nearly breaking her heart. So she put all that sort of sentiment, once and for ever, in a grave, and filled it up, and flattened it down.
I’m never, never, never going to love anyone! If you love people, they kill you. If you need people, they kill you. They do, I tell you!
He had a bitter pain in his heart, for he knew that she was still a stranger to him and his hungry love was destined to ever remain unsatisfied.
We break our hearts, oh, we break our hearts! For the things we must not tell.
Strange that grief should now almost choke me, because another human being's eye has failed to greet mine.