A Quote by Trevor Noah
I lived in a world where I didn't share the love for my stepfather that my mother shared for him. She married him.
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My mother ran away from my father after 16 years of being married to him. She was 16 when she hooked up with him. She left him after having six kids.
My mother never married my father. She was married to and divorced from another man, then she married and divorced my stepfather and then, ultimately, they ended up getting back together.
My mother Tessa married my stepfather, James, when I was three and we lived in Boston for a year.
You can't love a person till you know him or her inside out, until you've lived with them and shared experience: sadness, joy, living - you've got to share living before you can find love. Being in love doesn't last, but you can find love to take its place.
I stared at Jean-Claude and it wasn't the beauty of him that made me love him, it was just him. It was love made up of a thousand touches, a million conversations, a trillion shared looks. A love made up of danger shared, enemies conquered, a determination to neither of us would change the other, even if we could. I love Jean-Claude, all of him, because if I took away the Machiavellian plottings, the labyrinth of his mind, it would lessen him, make him someone else.
She is immensely interested in him. She has even secret mischievous moments in which she wishes she could get him alone, on a desert island, away from all ties and with nobody else in the world to consider, and just drag him off his pedestal and see him making love like any common man.
It was so enticing from the beginning to be this woman who was entrenched in The Flash's world. She's not there to just tell him what a great job he's doing, she's also there to push him further and help him to be the best that he can be. She's often the first person to be a little bit skeptical of him, which is kind of nice. She really challenges him.
What is this Charity, this clinking of money between strangers, and when did Charity cease to be a comforting and secret thing between one friend and another? Does Love make her voice heard through a committee, does Love employ an almoner to convey her message to her neighbor? ... The real Love knows her neighbor face to face, and laughs with him and weeps with him, and eats and drinks with him, so that at last, when his black day dawns, she may share with him, not what she can spare, but all that she has.
My cousin just got married for the totally wrong reasons. She married a man for money. She wasn't real subtle about it. Instead of calling him her fiancé, she kept calling him her financee.
Sometimes a woman's love of being loved gets the better of her conscience, and though she is agonized at the thought of treating a man cruelly, she encourages him to love her while she doesn't love him at all. Then, when she sees him suffering, her remorse sets in, and she does what she can to repair the wrong.
Rilke has a very bizarre relationship to women because his mother had an older child, a girl who died when she was a baby. So when Rilke was born she named him Sophie and dressed him as a girl until he was 7. And psychologically, the repercussions of that made him the genius that he is. By the time he was 35, he was continuously falling in love with older women, mother figures, spiritual mothers.
It was love, she thought, love that never clutch its object; but, like the love which mathematicians bear their symbols, or poets their phrases, was meant to be spread over the world and become part of human gain. The world by all means should have shared it, could Mr Bankes have said why that woman pleased him so; why the sight of her reading a fairy tale to her boy had upon him precisely the same effect as the solution of a scientific problem.
Even his highly emotional Italian mother didn't believe that true love could blossom overnight. Like his brothers and sisters-in-law, she wanted nothing more for him than to marry and start a family, but if he showed up at her doorstep and said that he'd met someone two days ago and knew she was the one for him, his mother would smack him with a broom, curse in Italian, and drag him to church, sure that he had some serious sins that needed confessing.
I love him, she thought. I'm just not in love with him and also I don't love him. I've tried, I've strained to love him but I can't. I am building a life with a man I don't love, and I don't know what to do about it.
Teenagers don't know what love is. They have mixed-up ideas. They go for a drive and the boy runs out of gas and they smooch a little and the girl says she loves him. That isn't love. Love is when you are married twenty-five years, smooching in your living room and he runs out of gas and she says she still loves him. That's love.
My brother and my mother had a really difficult relationship; he would exasperate her to death but she'd always be there for him, she always loved him even if she didn't like him at the moment.
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