When I was 18, I thought that, to be a romantic, you couldn't live past 30.
I like those stories that capture the brutality of life, but there's still some kind of melancholy romance.
My mother says happy ever after's a bunch of bull.
Never had much faith in love or miracles, Never wanna put my heart on the line
I half wish that I had not been born with a sense of romance and beauty in this accursed age.
Tristan and Isolde were lucky to die when they did. They'd have been sick of all that rubbish in a year.
That's the trouble with you sad-city types: a place has to be miserable and dull as ditchwater before you believe it's real.
The age-old faith of lovers and poets in the power of love, stronger than death, that Finis vitae sed non amoris, is a lie, useless and not even funny.
