Myrtle Reed Quotes

Every letter was a love letter.

The frankest and freest product of the human mind and heart is a love letter; the writer gets his limitless freedom of statement and expression from his sense that no stranger is going to see what he is writing.

Every letter was a love letter. Of course, as love letters went, this one could have been better. It was not very promising, for instance, that Madeleine claimed not to want to see him for the next half-century.

The greatest of love letters are always coded for the one and not the many.

If someone sends you a love letter you've got to answer back.

And when you love someone you don’t always see them realistically.

I didn't mean to send love letters, but that is what they became. On their way to you, my words turned into heartbeats on the page.

A real love letter is absolutely ridiculous to everyone except the writer and the recipient.

How wise are they that are but fools in love!

At the end of the day, if the guy is going to write the girl a letter, whether it's chicken scratch or scribble or looks like a doctor's note, if he takes the time to put pen to paper and not type something, there's something so incredibly romantic and beautiful about that.

I am a sucker for romance and I love girls and that is a terrible combination, because romance has the ability to overwhelm your perspective.

There is only one situation I can think of in which men and women make an effort to read better than they usually do. It is when they are in love and reading a love letter.

Young love is wild and outrageous, laughing at moderation and blinding us to common sense.

Love is being stupid together.

'Letters From Home' is a story inspired by my grandparents' epistolary courtship.

Any woman can fool a man if she wants to and if he's in love with her.

I think love is blind. You don't see it; you don't hear what people are saying or what you're saying. You don't see what you're doing. All you see is the person in front of you. That's it.

Lovers are rarely the most rational beings in creation.

I love you," he writes again and again. "I can't bear to live without you. I'm counting the minutes until I see you." The words he uses are the idioms of popular songs and poems in the newspaper. And mine to him are no less cliched. I puzzle over the onionskin, trying to spill my heart onto the page. But I can only come up with the same words, in the same order, and hope the depth of feeling beneath them gives them weight and substance. I love you. I miss you. Be careful. Be safe.

That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.

See the valentine I made for Linus? On the inside, I wrote, To my sweet babboo." "He says he's not your sweet babboo." "What does he know?

Love's not only blind but deaf.

One is easily fooled by that which one loves.

You know what they say - love is blind.

Love is more than blind. It’s brain-dead.