"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on."One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you — the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing.
Because she is my rose."
You know that feeling you get sometimes when you're standing in a high place? Sudden urge to jump? I don't have it.
Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.
I know you're concerned about disappointing me, but I want you to take comfort from the knowledge that my expectations of you are very low.
Nobody move! I dropped my brain.
— Especially when I'm in love with a psycho like you.
— I am not a psycho.
— I just told you that I loved you, and all you heard was "psycho."