Quotes from Erich Segal

Amar significa nunca tener que decir lo siento

Sometimes I ask myself what I would be if Jenny were alive. And then I answered: I would also be alive.

Sometimes I ask myself what I would be if Jenny were alive. And then I answer:I would also be alive.

They glanced at one another like tigers taking measure of a menacing new rival. But in this kind of jungle you could never be sure where the real danger lurked.

Professors of classics - not even a professor of English - professors of classics, they're something sacred; it's almost like being a priest.

Quiet heroism or youthful idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living - or that either can be fatal?

Love means not ever having to say you're sorry.

Love means never having to say you're sorry.

Love means never having to say you're sorry.

What the hell makes you so smart?" I asked. "I wouldn't go for coffee with you, " she answered. "Listen -- I wouldn't ask you." "That, "she replied "is what makes you stupid.

I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons.

And then I did what I had never done in his presence, much less in his arms. I cried.

What the hell makes you smart?" I asked. "I wouldn't go for coffee with you." "Listen - I wouldn't ask you." "That," she replied, "is what makes you stupid.

The pain of not knowing what to do was exceeded only by that of knowing what I had done.

Please, if one of us cries, let both of us cry. But preferably neither of us.

Some were brilliant bordering on genius. Others, genius bordering on madness

He had then warned his daughter not to violate the Eleventh Commandment. "Which one is that?" I asked her. "Do not bullshit thy father," she said.

Something may have been lost in translation, but it certainly wasn't love

You don't know about falling off cliffs, Prep­pie,' she said. 'You never fell off one in your god­damn life.' 'Yeah,' I said, re­cov­er­ing the power of speech. 'When I met you.

What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?

The 'equilibrium' that people see in me is really an illusion. I am as flawed as anyone. It's only that I seem to have the knack of hiding.

There was a brief silence. I think I heard snow falling.

Her handwriting was curious — small sharp little letters with no capitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?).

What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me.