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 Nobody was perfect. Not even close. And everybody had wrinkles from smiling and squinting and craining their necks. Everybody has marks on their bodies from years of living- a trail of life left on them. Evidence of all the adventures and sleepless nights and practical jokes and heartbreaks that had made them who they are.

There are good people and bad people in the world. The ones who start the fires, and the ones that put them out.

Those who really love, love in silence, with deeds and not in words.

Then he made one last effort to search in his heart for the place where his affection had rotted away, and he could not find it.

I cannot believe that the purpose of life is to be happy. I think the purpose of life is to be useful, to be responsible, to be compassionate. It is, above all, to matter and to count, to stand for something, to have made some difference that you lived at all.

The lesson is that you can still make mistakes and be forgiven.

When you love someone, you say their name different. Like its safe inside your mouth.

When you know someone a long time, you become accustomed to their idiosyncrasies, which is a fancy word for their unique habits.