It was strange: When you reduced even a fledgling love affair to its essentials - I loved her, she maybe loved me, I was foolish, I suffered - it became vacuous and trite, meaningless to anyone else. In the end, it's only the moments that we have, the kiss on the palm, the joint wonder at the furrowed texture of a fir trunk or at the infinitude of grains of sand in a dune. Only the moments.
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About Susan Vreeland
Susan Vreeland was American author. Susan Joyce Vreeland was an American author. Several of her books deal with the relationship between art and fiction. Read more on Wikipedia →