This year’s edition of Literary Love:
And the Birds Rained Down by Jocelyne Saucier
Love, there is only love… to explain what we don’t understand.
Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy
I shall do one thing in this life – one thing certain – that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die.
Away From Everywhere by Chad Pelley
There is a reason they call it falling in love. It always happens by accident, and it’s always too late once it happens. You’ve already fallen, you’re already stuck. Right or wrong.
Naomi by Junichiro Tanizaki
… most of her value to me lay in the fact that I’d brought her up myself, that I myself had made her into the woman she was, and that only I knew every part of her body. For me Naomi was the same as a fruit that I’d cultivated myself. I’d labored hard and spared no pains to bring that piece of fruit to its present, magnificent ripeness, and it was only proper that I, the cultivator, should be the one to taste it.
The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert
All her life, she felt, she had lived in a state of speculation. All she had ever wanted was to know things, yet still and now – even after all these years of tireless questioning – all she did was ponder and wonder and guess.
This life is a mystery, yes, and it is often a trial, but if one can find some facts within in, one should always do so – for knowledge is the most precious of all commodities.
Every Blade of Grass by Thomas Wharton
Sometimes a person doesn’t really want certain things to change, even if they think they do.
… if you wait until something is a dead certainty, by that time it may just be dead.
The Road To Atlantis by Leo Brent Robillard
It broke David’s heart to see his son this way, his eyes lingering on his father, squeezing everything possible from that moment. It broke his heart, because he knew that one day Matty would discover what David already knew. Everything eventually came to an end. Even love, And if it didn’t end, it twisted and became sharp and ugly, and then you simply wanted it to end.
The Douglas Notebooks by Christine Eddie
We often imagine that love must gush forth spontaneously, surround itself with disarming turmoil, and blossom with a roar. Yet love also advances with muffled tread.