Harlan Coben

Years fly by, but the heart stays in the same place.

. . . better to have loved and lost" bullshit. Don't show me paradise and then burn it down.

Trust is like that. You can break it for a good reason. But it still remains broken.

Memories, you see, hurt. The good ones most of all.

I remember one time I heard this English professor asking the class what the world's scariest noise is. Is it a man crying out in pain? A woman's scream of terror? A gunshot? A baby crying? And the professor shakes his head and says, 'No, the scariest noise is, you're all alone in your dark house, you know you're all alone, you know that there is no chance anyone else is home or within miles—and then, suddenly, from upstairs, you hear the toilet flush.

The ugliest truth, in the end, was still better than the prettiest of lies.

Man plans. God laughs.

Part of the human condition is that we all think that we are uniquely complex while everyone else is somewhat simpler to read. That is not true, of course. We all have our own dreams and hopes and wants and lust and heartaches. We all have our own brand of crazy.

Hope is cruel. Hope reminds me of what almost was. Hope makes the physical ache return.