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Everyone always wants to know how you can tell when it's true love, and the answer is this: when the pain doesn't fade and the scars don't heal, and it's too damned late.

Jonathan Tropper

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Jonathan Tropper
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: February 19
Executive Producer
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Riverdale
New York City
Pain
Damned
Everyone
Fades
Tell
Scar
Doesn
Heal
True
Answer
Always
Late
Love
Wants
Scars
Answers
Fade

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...you realize that you don't understand yourself any better than you understand anyone else.
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Love made us partners in narcissism, and we talked ceaselessly about how close we were, how perfect our connection was, like we were the first people in history to ever get it exactly right.
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It's sort of an organic process when you're adapting any book, not even just your own. You want to preserve the heart of the story and you want to preserve who the characters are, but film requires a lot of compression.
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It would be a terrible mistake to go through life thinking that people are the sum total of what you see.
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Silver is forty-four years old, if you can believe it, out of shape, and depressed—although he doesn’t know if you call it depression when you have good reason to be maybe then you’re simply sad, or lonely, or just painfully aware, on a daily basis, of all the things you can never get back.
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Life, for the most part, inevitably becomes routine, the random confluence of timing and fortune that configures its components all but forgotten. But every so often, I catch a glimpse of my life out of the corner of my eye, and am rendered breathless by it.
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We all start out so damn sure, thinking we've got the world on a string. If we ever stopped to think about the infinite number of ways we could be undone, we'd never leave our bedrooms.
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There are no happy endings, just happy days, happy moments. The only real ending is death, and trust me, no one dies happy. And the price of not dying is that things change all the time, and the only thing you can count on is that there's not a thing you can do about it.
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Pity, I've learned, is like a fart. You can tolerate your own, but you simply can't stand anyone else's.
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I wake up like this, this sense that I've somehow been transported to an alternate universe where my life took a left instead of a right beacuse of some seeemingly insignificant yet cosmically crucial choice I've made, about a girl or a kiss or a date or a job or which Starbucks I went into...something.
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As far as rapprochements go, it's awkward and vague, but the advantage of being as emotionally inarticulate as we are is that it will do the trick.
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I want to explain everything to him, show him that it’s really not as screwed up as it all sounds, but then I remember that it is.
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You never know when it will be the last time you'll see your father, or kiss your wife, or play with your little brother, but there's always a last time. If you could remember every last time, you'd never stop grieving.
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We're all clichés, all following scripts that have been written and played out long before we landed the role.
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Fate already warned us to pack it in. We just didn’t hear it in time.
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Get comfortable with being alone. It will empower you.
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Sometimes it’s heartbreaking to see your siblings as the people they’ve become. Maybe that’s why we all stay away from each other as a matter of course.
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If only all our conflicts could be resolved with a few grunts and a smack in the ass.
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I've never been shot, but this probably what it feels like, that second of nothingness right before the pain catches up to the bullet.
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I loved her for the way she embraced the unknown, how she opened herself up to every experience. When I was with her, she opened me up, too, stirred my passion and heightened my every sensation. Which was great, until she left me and all my heightened senses to deal with the heartache of losing her.
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