What love is it, then, that has no need of words to call us? In whose image are we made, to take such delight in a simple image, a square of light on a dark wall?

It was pivotal in making you but you don't remember it. Or do you? Do we understand the events that make us who we are? Do we understand the factors that make us do the things we do?

The words you can’t find, you borrow.
We read to know we’re not alone. We read because we are alone. We read and we are not alone. We are not alone.
My life is in these books, he wants to tell her. Read these and know my heart.
We are not quite novels.
The analogy he is looking for is almost there.
We are not quite short stories. At this point, his life is seeming closest to that.
In the end, we are collected works.

I cannot remember the books I've read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me.

It is what it is, it is what you make it.

Let your actions speak LOVE. No matter what it is.