To know you will be lonely is not the same as being lonely. When Lucinda came down the Parramatta River in Sol Myer’s boat, she imagined her life would be a lonely one, and she felt a strength through recognizing it. And yet what she imagined was not loneliness, which is boggy and sour, but something else which was bright and hard. The difference between what she imagined and what she finally experienced is the difference between the blade of a knife - an object of chilly beauty - and the chronic pain of an open wound.
Oscar and Lucinda by Peter Carey
That is the way it is, we always fall in love because of a detail, a nuance. It is a marker we set for ourselves in the midst of the confusion in the infinite space of love. The greatest passions come from such little causes. What makes us fall in love? Hair of a particular colour, the tone of voice, a beauty spot which disturbs us and hints at others, an expression in the eyes, a contour of the hands, a certain palpitation of the nose, which quivers as if it were always facing the sea.
The Bells of Bruges by Georges Rodenbach
He went to the curtains and drew them apart. The light woke him in the morning, but he knew - or thought he knew- that she liked them open.
‘You don’t have to draw them. I really don’t mind.’
‘I like them open,’ he lied. ‘You know I do.’
‘Of course.’ It was no good her wanting them shut when she knew he liked air. The light did wake her in the mornings, but it was a small price to pay for someone she loved so much.
The Light Years by Elizabeth Jane Howard