He thought about alone in Constantinople that time, having quarreled in Paris before he had gone out. He had whored the whole time and then when that was over he had failed to kill his loneliness, but only made it worse, he had written to her, the first one, the one who left him, a letter telling her how he had never been able to kill it… How when he thought he had seen her outside the Regence one time it made him go all faint and sick inside, and that he would follow a woman who looked like her in some way, along the Boulevard, afraid to see it was not she, afraid to lose the feeling it gave him. How every one he had slept with only made him miss her more. How what she had done could never matter since he knew he could not cure himself from loving her.
― Ernest Hemingway, The Snow of Kilimanjaro
Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives.
― Barbara Kingsolver, The Lacuna