You see, I am not at all certain that I'd ever witnessed love. Before you and him. It's rare enough, you know. Certainly I'd never felt it - or even mistaken it - for myself. Even the thought of happiness terrifies me. Fragile as a blown rose. Why would anyone choose happiness over the long-enduring qualities of fear and pain? I've often wondered if fear and pain would die, too, if I'd only let them. If I would stop caring for them, fussing over them.
Source: That Summer in Sicily: A Love Story, Page: 163-164
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