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Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
remember seeing that picture and realizing that photographs weren’t real. There’s no context, just the illusion that you’re showing a snapshot of a life, but life isn’t snapshots, it’s fluid. So photos are like fictions. I loved that about them. Everyone thinks photography is truth, but it’s just a very convincing lie.”
“I love you,” he says, and Addie wonders if this is love, this gentle thing. If it is meant to be this soft, this kind. The difference between heat, and warmth. Passion, and contentment. “I love you too,” she says. She wants it to be true.
He is gravity. He is three hundred years of history.
“What nonsense,” he says. “It is because I love you that I won’t. Love is hungry. Love is selfish.”
“Nothing is all good or all bad,” she says. “Life is so much messier than that.”
That time always ends a second before you’re ready. That life is the minutes you want minus one.
