David Levithan

People take love’s continuity for granted, just as they take their body’s continuity for granted. They don’t realize that the best thing about love is its regular presence

fondness, that pleasant, detached mix of admiration and sentiment, appreciation and nostalgia.

Imagine this:

You’re in your favorite bookstore, scanning the shelves. You get to the section where a favorite author’s books reside, and there, nestled in comfortably between the incredibly familiar spines, sits a red notebook.

What do you do?

The choice, I think, is obvious:

You take down the red notebook and open it.

Or maybe I’d only look at books with green covers, because it had been too long since I’d read a book with a green cover

I preferred to hang out with the dead, dying, or desperate books—used we call them, in a way that we’d never call a person, unless we meant it cruelly.

I want to believe that my hope is not in vain.

The sound of my own life, my own internal life, was all that I needed.

Tell me something that’s a drag.

I had my two favorite dogs with me in the park—Lola and Dude, a little pug-Chi mix and a giant chocolate Lab. It’s true love between them. You can tell by how eagerly they sniff each other’s butts.

“Do you want to know why I never married?”

“The question wasn’t at the top of my list,” I admitted.