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We are always tortured by our memory of the last time we were with anyone, what we said, what we did not say.

Margaret George

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Margaret George
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The strong look for more strength, the weak for excuses.
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It is only when our fate hangs in the balance, when our very life depends on something, that we see whether or not we trust that the rope to which we are clinging will support us. If we do not, then we let of of the ledge and swing on it with our full weight.
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The cure for a broken heart is simple, my lady. A hot bath and a good night's sleep.
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Defeat I can endure with cheerfulness, my lady. But betrayal is like taking the wind from my sails, or the earth from beneath my feet. It chills my spirits like a rainy day, and all I can do is draw the curtains and cry into my pillow.
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Perhaps life is like an hour glass, with dear ones the sand that slips from the upper glass--the earth--into the second--eternity.
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Things do not happen, we must make them happen
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To love someone is to catch your breath whenever he walks in the room.
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The most wicked criminals have God on their lips at all times, for God is the only one who can stomach them.
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I was ever the realist, sometimes to my sorrow. But seldom to my regret.
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Yet we always envy others, comparing our shadows to their sunlit sides.
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Boredom is that awful state of inaction when the very medicine - that is, activity - which could solve it, is seen as odious.
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So I learned two things that night, and the next day, from him: the perfection of a moment, and the fleeting nature of it.
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Thus we use our supposed knowledge of others to speak on their behalf, and condemn them for their words we ourselves put in their silent mouths.
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We are more than our bodies, it is true but we cannot be divorced from them. They are us, and the only way in which we can see one another. Perhaps the gods are above this, but in their mercy, they have given us the guise of bodies.
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When he comes into a room, you give a little gasp, deep inside, far inside,' someone once said when trying to describe what it meant to love.
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Hope is a straw hat hanging beside a window covered with frost.
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One always imagines that the days that change one’s life must be marked with something extraordinary in nature—storms and lightning, darkness at noon, and so on. In truth they are indistinguishable from any other, which is one reason we feel mocked, as if the world is telling us we are inconsequential.
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