I am doing something I hate for you. This is what it means to be in love.
I saw Herschel and he saw me and we stood next to each other because that is what friends do in the presence of evil or love.
Love itself became the object of her love. She loved herself in love, she loved loving love, as love loves loving, and was able, in that way, to reconcile herself with a world that fell so short of what she would have hoped for.
She was with me. She did all of those things and so many more, things I would never tell anyone, and she never even loved me. Now that's love.
The animals are those things that God likes but doesn't love.
I put my hand on him. Touching him has always been important to me, it was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches, my fingers against his shoulder, the outsides of our thighs touching as we squeeled together on the bus. I couldnt explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stiching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?
If it had and answer, it wouldn't really be love, would it?
It was the first time I had ever made love. I wondered if he knew that. It felt like crying. I wondered, Why does anyone ever make love?
She had been in love so many times that she began to suspect she was not falling in love, but rather doing something much more ordinary
Sometimes I wonder if she knows, I wonder in my Nothingest moments if she's testing me, if she types nonsense all day long, or types nothing at all, just to see what I'll do in response, she wants to know if I love her, that's all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet.
He was not such a special person. He loved to read very much, and also to write. He was a poet, and he exhibited me many of his poems. I remember many of them. They were silly, you could say, and about love. He was always in his room writing those things, and never with people. I used to tell him, What good is all that love doing on paper? I said, Let love write on you for a little. But he was so stubborn. Or perhaps he was only timid.
More Jonathan Safran Foer Quotations (Based on Topics)
Life - Love - World - Time - Sadness - Death & Dying - People - Mind - Cry - Memory - Thought & Thinking - Fathers - Truth - Literature - Joy & Excitement - Birds - Future - Family - God - View All Jonathan Safran Foer Quotations
More Jonathan Safran Foer Quotations (By Book Titles)
- Everything is Illuminated
- Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
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