Soon the trains, too, shall pass out of all being, while books, I'm afraid, will go on pretending they are still among us.

From childhood’s hour I have not been as others were – I have not seen as others saw – I could not bring my passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken my sorrow; I could not awaken my heart to joy at the same tone; and all I loved, I loved alone.

In the evening, warmth. Night like a night in summer.
It does me no good; violence has changed me. My body has grown cold like the stripped fields; now there is only my mind, cautious and wary, with the sense it is being tested.

Of what use is it to rid one’s self of the world, when no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?

I couldn't lose you. How could I losе you? I couldn't lose you.

He was never graceful. He plodded around everywhere. He landed with a thud. You could hear him clomping across the floor. He demanded to sit on you, and was just huge.

Watanuki faltered, and Doumeki couldn't remember ever hearing him falter. Not when he was like this, a wish shop keeper in all his terrible power.

I have no fear of anyone! I'm dumb and wild and free. I am a flightless bird, and there'll be no more after me.

This very long life spent mostly in an indefinite eternal childhood where he never really grew up until he left the site of his trauma(s) is a really gut-punching way of making physically real the kind of very old child you become when you grow up too fast.

You! You were there, in the middle of it all, strong as a hundred men! A bulwark against the tide that threatened to overwhelm us! And now you’ve brought me a sandwich!

The heart wants what it wants.
Could it not want something a bit more attainable?
Attainable? Oh please.

The Lovers are two figures so in love they are out to destroy the other. It’s about passion, about allowing yourself to be overwhelmed, allowing a love to be feral without needing to domesticate it.

I never said an honest thing to you in all my life.

But while fun – the exultant joy of creation – has always been a major animating force of art, it has never been a sufficient raison d’être for art criticism.

Where are the weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter? All, all, are sleeping on the hill.

If anyone deserves the right to be happily making out with a handsome (if boring) hunk, it’s Kira. She has earned a break. And yet we know enough of her character to know that she will never be completely blindsided by Bareil because she’ll never let her guard down completely.

The staging repeatedly and ingeniously echoes this isolating difference. He is often found climbing onto the top of the piano or one of those transparent cubes as others crowd him.

Hand me your hand, let me look in your eyes, as my last chance to feel human begins to vaporize. Maybe it's the heat in here, maybe it's the pressure – you ought to head for the exits, the sooner the better.

This disregard for human customs & necessities means that Achilles’ death will come; he can’t go on like this forever. He knows he will die & does not care. The moment Patroclus died, Achilles did so as well. If death is nigh, why shouldn’t Achilles behave like an immortal?

But the magic is gone. My joy got bloated and sick.

You’re addicted to loneliness and desperation. It’s the strongest emotion you’ve ever known, so your subconscious tells you that it’s your destiny.

I saw you last in summertime. You said you hated long goodbyes. You said there's nothing to explain, in every life a little rain, et cetera.

So if you catch me trying to find my way into your heart from under your skin: fast as you can, baby, scratch me out, free yourself!

I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and no matter how I am discovered after what happens to me as I am discovering this.

Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It’s all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand. Everything is a self portrait. Everything is a diary.

It's not your place to make my decisions for me.
No. It's my place to tell you when you're making stupid ones. It's your place to consider the fact that once in a while I might be right!

Left to folly or to fare; whom the higher gods forgot, whom the lower gods berate.

I ask you to please believe me when I tell you that you are beautiful and intelligent, and I have been more fond of you than I should be for longer than I care to admit. I share secrets with you that I have never told anyone, because I knew you would not use them against me.

The power to decide what is trivial – and what is annoying – is also part of the power to decide how “what happened” becomes “that which is said to have happened.”

They kiss – deep, yes, but gentle, not let's-fuck-right-here kissing or gotta-go-see-you-later kissing. The kind of kiss you give someone you suspect might be around for a while.