Rain with an umbrella while holding hands with your lover is damned sure nice.

I travel not only for the passion and madness and desire of movement, but because travel, like bread and water and air, becomes necessary to a life fully dreamed and lived.

Spring is a time to make up a big bouquet of flowers for someone you love, or are trying to love, or are in love with.

You become a man when you marry not just for love but to be a partner with your wife. To be the best man you can be with her, and when you fall short, to admit your shortcomings and to constantly strive to be a great man to your wife.

Take off my clothes and there becomes a man. Take off my skin and there becomes my bones. Break all my bones and there becomes my heart. Smash my heart and there becomes my soul. And that you cannot take.

What good is an “I LOVE YOU” If said only when you have to?What good is it to ride a horse if you cannot gallop?What good is it to believe in someone if you doubt your own belief?

HungerYou are only here now, and then you are gone. So be hungry. Hunger toward beauty. Hunger toward love. Hunger towards the unimaginable and unthinkable.

What good is an “I love you” if said only when you have to?

The Losing of Love . . . Like discovering a shard of heaven’s handwriting in the snowflake that has landed upon your hand, desperately wishing you could give such beauty to your best friend before it melts away. And what you are left with is an exquisite regret—the eloquent conspiracy of memory—of the moment lived and the moment wished for that never will arrive.