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"But it is just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach their car, their locked hands a starfish leaping through the dark."
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"Surely the Cupid serving him was lefthanded, with a weak chin and no imagination."
"You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they're not."
"I put my forehead on his collarbone, place one hand on his chest. Its rhythm reassures me: He is real, and he is now."
"Take it from me: love has all the lasting permanence of a rainbow-beautiful while it's there, and just as likely to have disappeared by the time you blink."
"Love [is] supposed to move mountains, to make the world go round, to be all you need, but it [falls] apart at the deatils. It [can't] save a single person."
"She was right about something else too," Dimitri said after a long pause. My back was to him, but there was a strange quality to his voice that made me turn around."What's that?" I asked."That I do still love you."With that one sentence, everything in the universe changed."
"I want someone to sit beside after the day's pursuit and all its anguish, after its listening, and its waitings, and its suspicions. After quarrelling and reconciliation I need privacy - to be alone with you, to set this hubbub in order. For I am as neat as a cat in my habits."
Explore more quotes by John Updike
"Writers may be disreputable, incorrigible, early to decay or late to bloom but they dare to go it alone."
"The essential support and encouragement comes from within, arising out of the mad notion that your society needs to know what only you can tell it."
"Truth should not be forced; it should simply manifest itself, like a woman who has in her privacy reflected and coolly decided to bestow herself upon a certain man."
"Four years was enough of Harvard. I still had a lot to learn, but had been given the liberating notion that now I could teach myself."
"Russia is the only country of the world you can be homesick for while you're still in it."
"To say that war is madness is like saying that sex is madness: true enough, from the standpoint of a stateless eunuch, but merely a provocative epigram for those who must make their arrangements in the world as given."
"Being able to write becomes a kind of shield, a way of hiding, a way of too instantly transforming pain into honey."
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