I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self-respect and it’s these things I’d believe in even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn’t all she should be… I love her and that’s the beginning and end of everything.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald about future wife Zelda Sayre, in a letter to a friend, 1920.
Les promesses sont des rêves auxquels il ne faut pas trop s’attacher ne sachant leur possibilité à se réaliser.
She’s the kind of girl a guy meets when he’s too young, and he fucks up because there’s too much living to do. But later he realizes she’s perfect.
He kissed her. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn’t have done anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him, and he wanted it back.
When you start to know someone, all their physical characteristics start to disappear. You begin to dwell in their energy, recognize the scent of their skin. You see only the essence of the person, not the shell. That’s why you can’t fall in love with beauty. You can lust after it, be infatuated by it, want to own it. You can love it with your eyes and your body but not your heart. And that’s why, when you really connect with a person’s inner self, any physical imperfections disappear, become irrelevant.