There is, I hope, a thesis in my work: we may encounter many defeats, but we must not be defeated. That sounds goody-two-shoes, I know, but I believe that a diamond is the result of extreme pressure and time. Less time is crystal. Less than that is coal. Less than that is fossilized leaves. Less than that it’s just plain dirt. In all my work, in the movies I write, the lyrics, the poetry, the prose, the essays, I am saying that we may encounter many defeats—maybe it’s imperative that we encounter the defeats—but we are much stronger than we appear to be and maybe much better than we allow ourselves to be. Human beings are more alike than unalike. There’s no real mystique. Every human being, every Jew, Christian, backslider, Muslim, Shintoist, Zen Buddhist, atheist, agnostic, every human being wants a nice place to live, a good place for the children to go to school, healthy children, somebody to love, the courage, the unmitigated gall to accept love in return, someplace to party on Saturday or Sunday night, and someplace to perpetuate that God. There’s no mystique. None. And if I’m right in my work, that’s what my work says.

Boris laughed. “And you love her, yes. But not too much.”

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you are not mad, or wild, or grieving! You are not roaring out to choke her with your own bare hands! Which means that your soul is not too mixed up with hers. And that is good. Here is my experience. Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you. What you want to live and be happy in the world is a woman who has her own life and lets you have yours."

The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt

There was a pause while they looked at each other, and the momentary eagerness in his eyes wavered. She rose and stood looking at him, her face quite expressionless.

'Shall we dance?' she suggested, coolly.

- Love is fragile - she was thinking - but perhaps the pieces are saved, the things that hovered on lips, that might have been said. The new love-words, the tenderness learned, and treasured up for the next lover.

May Day - F. Scott Fitzgerald

She longs for tonight, she longs to skip the day that’s just begun and plunge headlong into the night as if into a pool; a pool with the moon reflected in it. She longs to swim in liquid moonlight.

But it’s dangerous to live for the night. Daytime becomes irrelevant. You can get careless, you can overlook details, you can lose track.

MaddAddam - Margaret Atwood
It is because woman are never lazy. They don’t know what it is to be quiet. They are Semiramides, and Cleopatra, and Joan of Arcs, Queen Elizabeths, and Catharine the Seconds, and they riot in battle, and murder, and clamour, and desperation. If they can’t agitate the universe and play at ball with hemispheres, they’ll make mountains of warfare and vexation out of domestic molehills; and social storms in household teacups. Forbid them to hold forth upon the freedom of nations and the wrongs of mankind, and they’ll quarrel with Mrs Jones about the shape of a mantle or the character of a small maidservant. To call them the weaker sex is to utter a hideous mockery. They are the stronger sex, the noisier, the more persevering, the most self-assertive sex. They want freedom of opinion, variety of occupation, do they? Let them have it. Let them be lawyers, doctors, preachers, teachers, soldiers, legislators - anything they like - but let them be quiet - if they can.
Lady Audley’s Secret - Mary Elizabeth Braddon
In all matrimonial associations there is, I believe, one constant factor - a desire to deceive the person with whom one lives as to some weak spot in one’s character or in one’s career. For it is intolerable to live constantly with one human being who perceives one’s small meannesses. it is really death to do so - that is why so many marriages turn out unhappily.
The Good Soldier - Ford Maddox Ford
It’s not what enters men’s mouths that’s evil," said the alchemist. "It’s what comes out of their mouths that is.
The Alchemist - Paulo Coelho
And they turned their parents into animals. These parents were, she observed, exhausted, they were in a state of animal exhaustion. They could not have cared less about themselves or their appearance, they were colourless, as thought the children had sucked out all of their human energy surplus. They had become sexless. the women especially, they seemed milked, dry, drained, desiccated.
The Woman & The Ape - Peter Høeg
She was by that time tired of men… or she imagined that she was, for she was not prepared to be certain, considering the muckers she saw women coming all round her over the most unpresentable individuals. Men, at any rate never fulfilled expectations. They might, upon acquaintance, turn out more entertaining than they appeared; but almost always taking up with a man was like reading a book you had read when you had forgotten that you had reaed it. You ahd not been for ten minutes in any sort of intimacy with any man before you said: ‘But I’ve read all this before…’ You knew the opening, you were already bored by the middle, and, especially, you knew the end.
Parade’s End - Ford Maddox Ford
Sex is not all tits and bums, but til he meets a raver of the intellectual type, a man could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
The Glade Within The Grove - David Foster