Real Life

I can't find the exact quote that Woody Allen's Hemingway uses when he talks about fear of death and loving a good woman but I can try to summarize:

"When you make love to a good woman you lose your fear of death, even if it's just for a moment. Then after the only thing to do is to make love again"

I still don't believe I'll ever find love the way I've read about in books but I will continue to chase every charmer I come across for just a few moments of blissful existential physical ecstasy that make me forget what haunts me

Not vanity, Curiosity.

Hemingway

"You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you dies each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason.

When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself."

I would have more success in love if I wasn't attracted to guys who resembled Ernest Hemingway.

J. S. V. E. R. D. B.

All my lost, unrequited loves have become the same ghosts.

They perch on my shoulder as I sit alone. They remind me of my place in this life, a solitaire.

My mother’s womb made me the same mercurial creature that she is now. I am doomed to repeat her mistakes.

A tragic fate, to be filled with unwavering and overwhelming amounts of love. Empathy that I cannot contain, nor understand. And not a recipient in site.

It is too perfect, and too beautiful a thing to love something that will not, will never love you back.

.

In my dreams I am in a hotel by the sea.

From the window I can taste salt in the air, feel the heat of the sun on my skin. There is no sound except the waves lapping up onto the shore, in their fruitless efforts to drown the earth. They are whispering secrets to me, I cannot understand them but I am soothed. I am alone.

In my dreams I am in a hotel by the sea.

I try to imagine you there; I try to imagine that you are good company. That I am happy with you, brushing your hair or lying with your leg over my body, that sort of rough affection that I grew to love. The moment lingers in its perfection and then is gone, and I can’t decide whether it was better to have dreamed it at all, knowing that your absence will haunt me.

Loneliness becomes me; it is my most beautiful face. These days, it is my only.