The Notebook

by Nicholas Sparks

Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost, No birth, identity, form—no object of the world, Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;… The body, sluggish, aged, cold—the embers left from earlier fires, … shall duly flame again;”

That life is simply a collection of little lives, each lived one day at a time. That each day should be spent finding beauty in flowers and poetry and talking to animals. That a day spent with dreaming and sunsets and refreshing breezes cannot be bettered. But most of all, I learned that life is about sitting on benches next to ancient creeks with my hand on her knee and sometimes, on good days, for falling in love.