Why is there ever this perverse cruelty in humankind, that makes us hurt most those we love best?

The pain of the flesh is naught to that of the heart

As gloriously, splendidly, intractably single-minded as he was, loving him was like grasping a knife, a clean white blaze of pain that kept me anchored to myself.

The pain of the flesh is naught to that of the heart.

Pain obliterates everything else. In pain, there is only the eternal present.

I wondered if he could ever understand that it was a blessing, not a sin, to be graced with more than one love. It could be complicated; of course it could be complicated. And it opened one up to the possibility of more pain and loss. Still, it was a blessing I would never relinquish. Love, genuine love, was always a cause for joy.