I'm working on what a soul is and not coming up with a whole lot.

All quotes by author Charles de Lint

“We’re all made of stories. When they finally put us underground, the stories are what will go on. Not forever, perhaps, but for a time. It’s a kind of immortality, I suppose, bounded by limits, it’s true, but then so’s everything.”

"Everytime you do a good deed you shine the light a little farther into the dark. And the thing is, when you're gone, that light is going to keep shining on, pushing the shadows back."

"I want to be magic. I want to touch the heart of the world and make it smile. I want to be a friend of elves and live in a tree. Or under a hill. I want to marry a moonbeam and hear the stars sing. I don't want to pretend at magic anymore. I want to be magic."

"There's stories and then there's stories. The ones with any worth change your life forever, perhaps only in a small way, but once you've heard them, they are forever a part of you. You nurture them and pass them on, and the giving only makes you feel better. The others are just words on a page."

"I finally figured out that I’m solitary by nature, but at the same time I know so many people; so many people think they own a piece of me. They shift and move under my skin, like a parade of memories that simply won’t go away. It doesn’t matter where I am, or how alone--I always have such a crowded head."

"That's the thing about magic; you've got to know it's still here, all around us, or it just stays invisible for you."

"I don't want to live in the kind of world where we don't look out for each other. Not just the people that are close to us, but anybody who needs a helping hand. I can't change the way anybody else thinks, or what they choose to do, but I can do my bit."

"There was nothing wrong with being a homebody. There was nothing wrong with not wanting - not needing - the constant jostle and noise of a party or bar or... whatever."

"Every time we fix something that's broken, whether it's a car engine or a broken heart, that's an act of magic. And what makes it magic is that we choose to create or help, just as we can choose to harm."

"Everybody has a soul." I turn to Pelly. "And that means you, too." "I'm not so sure of that," he says. "What does it feel like?" "Having a soul?" I look at Maxine, but she only shrugs. "I don't know," I tell Pelly. "I don't have anything to compare it to - you know, what not having a soul would feel like." We fall into a kind of awkward silence. I don't know about the others, but I'm working on what a soul is and not coming up with a whole lot. I mean, I just always thought of it as me - what I feel like being me. But surely Pelly feels like himself, so that means he's got a soul right? But if that's not your soul, then what is? It's weird and not something you really think about, is it?

"From the first time he’d met her, he’d sensed an air of contradiction about her. She was very much a woman, but still retained a waiflike quality. She could be brash, and at times deliberately suggestive, yet she was painfully shy. She was incredibly easy to get along with, yet she had few friends. She was a talented artist in her own right, but so self-conscious about her work that she rarely completed a piece and preferred to work with other people’s art and ideas."

Every day she built a house of cards, from her specific set of 52 hearts. She built different kinds from a one story ranch, a little cottage, an igloo, a 5 story walk-up, a teepee, and even a treehouse on top of a tiny tree — all of places where she always imagined you two might build a life of your own, but all of which would fall apart by the end of the day. Still, she would build and build and build and every day it would be something different, in hopes that this time it wouldn’t break, but little did she realize that paper will always be too weak to stand on it’s own, and what she really needed was a house made of stone, one strong enough to hold what you have together, one solid enough never to break down. But what does it matter how long that could hold when you don’t even want to come out from the cold to join her in this place of warmth? — a place she built for you two to own, only to become a place she realizes she might have to live in, alone.

"I still love Vista, baby."

"Turkey is a 20 pound Yankee Candle."

--Julia Moskin

You are now aware that you can't say IRISH WRISTWATCH.

Arnold Schwarzenegger was asked if he wanted to upgrade to Windows 7. He replied, “I still love Vista, baby.”

Today, I saw that my ironing board cover was wrinkled. I laughed at the irony. Then I laughed again because irony has the word iron in it.

I hope you never think about anything as much as I think about you.

“The nicest thing for me is sleep, then at least I can dream.”

--Marilyn Monroe

If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.

"Memory is a part of the present. It builds us up inside; it knits our bones to our muscles and keeps our hearts pumping. It is memory that reminds our bodies to work, and memory that reminds our spirits to work too: it keeps us who we are."

--Gregory Maguire, 'Son of a Witch: A Novel'

"Books fall open, you fall in. When you climb out again, you're a bit larger than you used to be."

--Gregory Maguire

"Sex appeal is fifty percent what you've got and fifty percent what people think you've got."

--Sophia Loren

Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on. I hope you never think about anything as much as I think about you.

"Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand - and melting like a snowflake."

--Francis Bacon, Sr.

You are an extraordinary woman. You have a purpose in this world, and hiding behind a fictional story that you are broken or incomplete is not it.

It's during times of disappointment that we make decisions in our minds that limit what is possible for us in the future.

We've got this obsession with material things as if heaven is ours if we're buying our wings.

Power isn't happiness.

"Someone once told me that the power in all relationships lies with whoever cares less, and he was right. But power isn't happiness, and I think that maybe happiness comes from caring more about people rather than less."

--'Ghosts of Girlfriend's Past'

You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

"It's a hell of a start, being able to recognize what makes you happy."

--Lucille Ball

Pasha Malla's "Does She Love You?"

"If one night you go out drinking and end up back at her place, pass out together on the bed with your shoes on, and wake up a few hours later only to discover that you’ve peed the bed, which she takes in stride, changes the sheets, and then the next morning has a laugh about it, later leaves some pamphlets from the local health clinic about child bedwetters in your mailbox, and eventually after a few weeks tells your friends but never, ever tells hers: She loves you.

If she knows what song is coming next on the mix CD you made her: She loves you.

If she hides your shoes when you’re late for work, and from a supine position on the couch plays “Hot/Cold,” and, finally, after 15 minutes of you ignoring her screaming, “Boiling! Burning up!” every time you stalk angrily by the dishwasher, gets up, flips it open to reveal the shoes, sitting there among the plates, and hands them over with a kiss and a giggle, and then laughs some more as you tie your laces in a silent rage: She loves you.

If she calls you at work that day to ask, “How are those shoes working out?”: She loves you.

If when you get home you try to hide something of hers, she finds it immediately, shaking her head, and when she pulls whatever it is—oven mitts or stretch pants—from behind the couch, she looks at you and without any attempt to hide her pity, says, “I love you”: She loves you.

If you’re Gael Garcia Bernal: She loves you.

If you’re not Gael Garcia Bernal, but you’re willing to sit through a “GGB” marathon and agree for 10 consecutive hours that he is indeed the most beautiful and talented man alive—and so down-to-earth, too!—and afterward agree that his portrayal of Che Guevara would have earned an Oscar nod were it not for the implicit politics, agree that taking Spanish classes is a great idea, or salsa, or tango, whatever, agree, agree, agree, and that night lying in bed after sex that ends with her screaming, “Si! Si!” wonder aloud, “But you’re happy with me, right?”: She loves you, man—no one can compete with that Latin bastard. Forget about it.

If she puts up with an entire Stars of the Lid album on a long-distance road trip: She loves you.

If she dances with your friends: She loves you.

If at Halloween you’re invited to a TV- and movie-themed party and she dresses up as Winnie Cooper and you dress up as Paul Pfeiffer, mainly because you already have the glasses, and at the party some guy who’s a dead ringer for Fred Savage saunters up, peels off his mole, and says, “Get lost, Paul, Winnie’s mine,” and you’re left standing there while the two of them go off dancing to the soundtrack from Forrest Gump, and when two hours later she finds you sitting by the punch bowl explaining for the umpteenth time that, no, you’re not supposed to be Woody Allen, she holds up a tie stolen from a passed-out Alex P. Keaton to her petticoat and redubs herself Annie Hall, and you Alvy Singer: She loves you. And, to be honest, I sort of love you, too.

If she’s a zombie: She loves you, but only for your brains.

If she says, “I love you” on the roller coaster, right after you’ve puked down your shirt: She loves you.

If you go to a karaoke bar with friends and do a duet of “Endless Love,” and she insists on doing the Lionel Richie part if only so she can really belt out a big “Ooh whoa” near the end, and when you’re done she announces you to the crowd as “Miss Diana Ross, everybody,” and then gives you a high-five: She loves you.

If she plays pointedly with strangers’ babies at the park, intermittently looking over to you with an expression that says, “See?”: She loves you.

If her parents love you: She loves you, probably.

If her parents hate you: She might love you, too.

If she’s the youngest of four sisters, two of whom are lesbians, the third a nun, and the first time you meet her father he pulls you away from his wife’s gingersnaps and homemade iced tea to check out the vintage “titty mags” he keeps hidden underneath a bench in the six-by-four corner of the basement he calls his workshop, the only place in the house not painted lavender and decorated with images of kittens and/or sunflowers, and every few pages he points out a particularly luxuriant pubis, and when you concur—“Sweet”—he smacks you heartily on the back and before you know it he’s calling you “Son” and have you ever fished for pike up north? Because he’s got a cabin. What of this? Well, her dad sure as hell loves you. Welcome to the family!

If she ever says the words, “I hate you”: She loves you. Or she did at one point, anyway.

If she loves you, if she really loves you, you’ll know it. If you can wake up to her staring at you and it’s not even mildly creepy, if you catch her smelling the shoulder of the hooded sweatshirt you lent her for an autumn walk at the beach, and not for B.O., if she makes you a pancake in the shape of a shark, if she calls you drunkenly at four in the morning “to talk,” if she laughs at your jokes when they’re funny and makes fun of you when they’re not, if she keeps her fridge stocked with Guinness tallboys for when you come over, if she tells you how she wishes she were closer to her sister and that her dad makes her sad: She loves you, of course she loves you.

And with a love like that, you know you should be glad."

Pasha Malla's "Does He Love You?"

Question: I was intrigued by an older Non-Expert column, “Does She Love You?” Out of similar curiosity I have to ask, how do I know if a boy loves me or not?—Danielle

Answer: If the third time you have sex you’re both really drunk and as he’s finishing he squeaks out a pathetic “I love you”—and afterward, lounging casually on your futon, he tries to pass it off as something else, something like, “I love YouTube,” or “I’ll off Uri Geller one of these days, I swear, just as soon as I figure out how he bends those spoons,” then a) It’s a little early, and maybe a little creepy, but he actually does love you; b) He mistook you for his ex-girlfriend; or c) He mistook you for Natalie Portman.

If you’re Natalie Portman, he loves you. Although, Natalie, darling? Not as much as I do. Please email me for more information: talk@themorningnews.org.

If the first time he meets your parents he talks for the entire dinner in that weird, overly enunciated, slightly high-pitched voice he uses for phone interviews for jobs he never gets—what you assume he thinks sounds polite but just comes across as effete and pitiful, and also somehow British—and when it’s time for good-byes outside the restaurant he hugs your mom a little too long and shakes your dad’s hand a little too vigourously and thanks them—again—for “the splendid meal,” smiling, smiling, and then as your folks drive away in a flash the gaiety sags into total, annihilated exhaustion—he loves you, the poor guy. Parents are hard!

If he stops making you mix CDs and starts loading your iPod with albums he clearly just wants for himself—”to share, baby!”—he loves you. Seriously, the new Stars of the Lid is pretty much a pop record! Don’t delete it! Give the sonic textures a chance!

If he bugs you and bugs you and bugs you to go out one night, pick up a random girl in a bar, and bring her home for a threesome, and then finally, as a test, one Tuesday evening over take-out Chinese you casually mention that you’ve been thinking about it and, sure, why not—and his expression twists into sudden, sheer terror at the prospect of the two of you desperately begging strangers to come back to your apartment, never mind the humiliation and shame—and potential exclusion—that would occur if you got one another’s clothes off, so when you say, “Well, what do you think?” he hums and haws for a bit before finally sputtering, “Ha, you know, yeah, of course, totally, but, maybe, uh, we should, uh, think about it, ha, some more, yeah?”—he, uh, yeah, loves you.

If he has a nickname for you inspired by your gastrointestinal troubles that he never, ever uses in front of anyone else—he loves you.

If just as you’re feeling desperate to flee his awful work party full of business card-wielding guys in architect glasses and girls tottering around on stilettos with blow-moustaches, he’s there with your coat, a stolen bottle of $50 organic white truffle shampoo hidden up his sleeve, and on the way out he farts beside his boss, who earlier had offered to “show you the Jacuzzi”—he loves you.

If on Valentine’s Day he’s out of the country but he paints a life-sized, full-body self-portrait that he has delivered to your door, and there’s a heart on the chest with a little sign that says, “Touch Me,” which then plays a tape of him singing a song about you that he wrote—he loves you. Now check this out: My buddy Jason actually did this. I kid you the fuck not. But before we start handing the guy Lover of the Year awards, let’s take a step back. If you ask me, this is exactly the sort of asshole move that ruins the comedy goldmine of ironic Valentine’s Day gifts for the rest of us. A few more guys like Jason, all “creative” and “premeditated” and “earnest,” and suddenly a used VHS copy of Mrs. Doubtfire and a half-empty box of Lifestyles become a transparent, eleventh-hour Hail Mary, rather than a hilarious and poignant commentary on the traps of consumerism and the true meaning of love, which is—what? Something to do with trust, I think. Or communication? Yeah, that’s it: trust and communication. Sorry, what was the question?

If when his mother calls he looks you in the eyes through the whole conversation, which obviously comprises her asking questions about you and him answering with vagaries like “Yeah, great,” and “For sure, really good,” and when he hangs up he doesn’t say anything, just sits there grinning like a total fucking idiot—he’s sort of a pathetic momma’s boy, but so was Biggie, and, whatever, he loves you.

If you have to set two alarms at night, one for the morning wake-up and one that marks the hour that the two of you absolutely have to stop talking and let each other sleep—he loves you.

If he fights a duel for your honor and wins—he loves you.

If he fights a duel for your honor and loses—hmm… What’s the other guy’s deal?

If when you die he dedicates two decades, his entire empirical fortune, and the muscle-power of over 1000 elephants to a construct an awe-inspiring mausoleum of pure white marble on the banks of an Indian river—he loves you. If 350 years later his descendents are actually able to keep the bathrooms clean, the German tourists will love you, too.

If one night you’re out with his friends and he goes on an extended, impassioned rant to defend the music of Sarah McLachlan—shit, I can’t get down with this one. Dude needs to spend a little less time building a mystery and join a boxing club or something.

If you start to get frustrated by how he quotes lines from music, movies, and books as proxies for his own emotions—man, this is just what we do! As Oasis have explained to wonderwalls of the L.L.Bean and soccer hooligan sets alike, “There are many things that [he] would like to say to you, but [he] don’t know how.” One of those things could be that he loves you, sure. Another, of course, could be that when you’re at work he puts on your underwear and twirls around the apartment whistling “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy.”

In this spirit, sort of, if you read him the following bit from Brian Moore’s great novel, The Luck of Ginger Coffey, and there’s a spark of recognition or even something like exhilaration flickers across his face—he loves you, and he could very well continue to love you for a long, long time. Yes, it’s a test:

Love isn’t an act, it’s a whole life. It’s staying with her now because she needs you; it’s knowing you and she will still care about each other when sex and daydreams, fights and futures—when all that’s on the shelf and done with. Love—why, I’ll tell you what love is: it’s you at seventy-five and her at seventy-one, each of you listening for the other’s step in the next room, each afraid that a sudden silence, a sudden cry, could mean a lifetime’s talk is over.