I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all; but whatever I have placed in God’s hands, that I still possess.

— Martin Luther

Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.

— Louis de Bernières, Corelli’s Mandolin

Man is the creature that makes pictures of himself then come to resemble the picture.

— Iris Murdoch