When i was a young man, i didn't think about having a family. my wife and i were too poor to have babies. then all of a sudden, one came along and scared the hell out of us because we had no money. once the baby arrives, you make do somehow. you fall in love with the baby and life adjusts itself. you find you don't need as much money as you thought. when that happens, you can ask the questions that should have come before the baby.
God made the world for the delight of human beings-- if we could see his goodness everywhere, his concern for us, his awareness of our needs: the phone call we've waited for, the ride we are offered, the letter in the mail, just the little things he does for us throughout the day. As we remember and notice his love for us, we just begin to fall in love with him because he is so busy with us -- you just can't resist him. I believe there's no such thing as luck in life, it's god's love, it's his.
There was once a little girl who was so very intelligent that her parents feared that she would die. But an aged aunt, who had crossed the atlantic in a sailing-vessel, said, 'my dears, let her marry the first man she falls in love with, and she will make such a fool of herself that it will probably save her life.
They send a person who can never stay," she whispered. "who can never accept my offer of companionship for more than a little while. they send me a hero i can't help ... just the sort of person i can't help falling in love with." ... as i sailed into the lake i realized the fates really were cruel. they sent calypso someone she couldn't help but love. but it worked both ways. for the rest of my life i would be thinking about her. she would always be my biggest what if.
I smiled at him, as doyle squeezed my hand and i squeezed back. "some people are addicted to falling in love, doctor. some people love that rush of new emotions, and when that first rush of new love is spent, they move on to the next, thinking the love wasn't real. what i felt in her, and potentially in you, is the love of years. love that knows that that first rush of freshness isn't the real thing. it's the tip of the iceberg.
There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love, and like that colossal adventure it is an experience of great social import. Even as the tranced swain, the booklover yearns to tell others of his bliss. He writes letters about it, adds it to the postscript of all manner of communications, intrudes it into telephone messages, and insists on his friends writing down the title of the find. Like the simple-hearted betrothed, once certain of his conquest