The problem with marriage is that it ends every night after making love, and it must be rebuilt every morning before breakfast. – Gabriel GarcÃa Márquez

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Our destiny often looks like a fruit-tree in winter. Who would think from its pitiable aspect that those rigid boughs, those rough twigs could next spring again be green, bloom, and even bear fruit? Yet we hope it, we know it. – Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Wilhelm Meister’s Travels, translated from German
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