What is all the suffering for if not so we can see how alike we are, and not alone? Where will the mercy come from, if not from us?

My life was my life; I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.

We knew what we had and what it meant, and though so much had happened since for both of us, there was nothing like those years in Paris, after the war. Life was painfully pure and simple and good, and I believed Ernest was his best self then. I got the very best of him. We got the best of each other.

You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through.