Men are stupid and women are crazy. And the reason women are so crazy is because men are so stupid.
Whenever I date a guy, I think, Is this the man I want my children to spend their weekends with?
No matter how much cats fight, there always seem to be plenty of kittens.
President and Mrs. Coolidge, visiting a government farm, were taken around on separate tours. At the chicken pens Mrs. Coolidge paused to inquire of the overseer whether the rooster copulated more than once a day. “Dozens of times,” said the man. “Tell that to the president,” requested Mrs. Coolidge. The president came past the pens and was told about the rooster. “Same hen every time?” he asked. “Oh, no, a different one each time.” Coolidge nodded. “Tell that to Mrs. Coolidge,” he said.
Bed is the poor man’s opera.
The absolute yearning of one human body for another particular one and its indifference to substitutes is one of life’s major mysteries.
You know “that look” women get when they want sex? Me neither.
I have a self-esteem problem. During sex I fantasize that I’m someone else.
It is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them.
Love is what’s left over after being in love has burned away.
A young couple is led to imagine that marriage is a box full of goodies, . . . that they can sit down and eat out of this box all their lives, and it will never be empty. But it is empty. There will never be anything in it unless the partners put it there. And if they do not want it to be empty, they must put in a lot more than they are in the habit of taking out. But the young romantic who imagined it ought to be endlessly full of goodies institutes a lawsuit against God and the marriage partner as soon as he discovers the score of the game. He feels swindled. But he imagines the next box he buys will be full even though the first one was empty.
Does one inevitably create in one’s own image the person one loves? But then love is not more than another form of imperialism.
There is no limit to our capacity to love. We can never be satisfied by loving just one person here and another there. Our need is to love completely, universally, without any reservations — in other words, to become love itself. It can take our breath away to glimpse the vastness of such love.
As I descended the stairs, the years between us seemed accumulated everywhere, filling the house, and it seemed strange to me, how love and habit blurred so thoroughly to make a life.
I knew couples who had been married almost forever — tending each other’s illnesses, dealing with money troubles or the daughter’s suicide or the grandson’s drug addiction. And I was beginning to suspect that it made no difference whether they’d married the right person. You’re just with who you’re with. You’ve signed on with her, put in half a century with her, grown to know her as well as you know yourself, and she’s become the right person, or the only person. I wish someone had told me that earlier; I’d have hung on then.
That a marriage ends is less than ideal; but all things end under heaven, and if temporality is held to be invalidating, then nothing real succeeds.
You say you have no faith? Love — and faith will come. You say you are sad? Love — and joy will come. You say you are alone? Love — and you will break out of your solitude. You say you are in hell? Love — and you will find yourself in heaven. Heaven is love.
