“While Chloe talked, I watched her hands fiddling with the belt of her beige woolen coat (a pair of freckles were collected below the index finger) and realized (as if it had been the most self-evident of truths) that I loved her. However awkward it was that she rarely finished her sentences, or was somewhat anxious and had not perhaps the best taste in earrings, she was adorable. I fell prey to a moment of unrestrained idealization, dependent as much on my emotional immaturity as on the elegance of her coat, the aftereffects of flying, and the depressing interior of the Terminal Four baggage area, against which her beauty showed up so starkly.”

—Alain de Botton, On Love

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