Growing up I always thought true love was red roses, dates on Saturday nights, little block box that held expensive things, and always knowing what to say. I thought true love was a kiss in the rain, deep explanations, and the perfect story. But now that I’m older I’ve realized it’s not like that at all.
"What’s your favorite thing about her?"
"What’s a time that she really impressed you with her intelligence?"
"Every single day. She’s the CFO of my company."
My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
—Nabokov is so lyrical, I can’t stand it. (via cassiaandthewolf)
"Do you remember the saddest moment of your life?"
"Probably sitting at the kitchen table with my dad, an hour after my mother died, realizing we had to figure out what we were going to do for lunch."
"I probably shouldn’t have taken things so seriously."
"In what way?"
"I think I changed too much when I got married. I tried to fit the role too much. I came from a big Italian family, so there was a lot of emphasis on being the ‘provider.’ You know— you gotta be the man. Gotta set an example. I guess I always thought that if I kept doing drugs, drinking, and partying, my kids wouldn’t have wanted to succeed."
"So you think should have done more drugs, drank more, and partied more?"
It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.
—Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (via camilla-macauley)