弗里达.布赖特说过：“只有在歌剧中，人们才会为爱而死。”这是确切的。你的确不会因为爱一个人而死。我知道有人因为缺乏爱而死，可我从来没有听说过谁因被爱而死。我们恰好是相互之间爱也爱不够。
有一个感人的故事，讲的是有个女人终于决定去向老板提出加薪的要求。她一整天都紧张而不安，下午晚些时候，她鼓足勇气与老板谈了此事。让她感到高兴的是，老板同意给她加薪。
当晚，那个女人回家后，发现漂亮的餐桌上已经摆满了丰盛的菜肴，烛光在轻轻地摇曳着。丈夫提早回家准备了一顿庆祝宴。她想，是不是办公室里有人向他通风报信了呢？或者……他不知怎么竟知道她不会被拒绝？
她在厨房找到了他，告诉了他这个好消息。他们拥抱亲吻，然后坐下来共进美餐。在她的盘子旁边，她看到了一张字迹优美的字条。上面写着：“亲爱的，祝贺你！我就知道你会得到加薪的。我为你做的这一切会告诉你，我有多么爱你。”
晚饭后，丈夫到厨房洗碗，她注意到又有一张卡片从他口袋里掉了出来。她把卡片从地板上拣起来，念道：“不要因为没有加薪而烦恼！不管怎样，是该给你加薪了！我为你做的这一切会告诉你，我有多么爱你。”
有人曾经说过，爱的限度就是无限度地去爱。不管妻子成功还是失败，丈夫都会给予她完全的包容和爱。他的爱庆祝她的胜利，也抚平她的创伤。不管生活的道路上遇到什么，他们都同舟共济。
特瑞莎嬷嬷在接受诺贝尔和平奖时说道：“你能为促进世界和平做些什么呢？回家爱你的家人吧。”还要爱你的朋友。爱他们无止境。
Her Shoes
She left her shoes， she took everything else， her toothbrush， her clothes， and even that stupid little silver vase on the table we kept candy in. Just dumped it out on the table and took the vase. The tiny apartment we shared seemed different now， her stuff was gone， it wasn‘t much really， although now the room seemed like a jigsaw puzzle with a few pieces missing， incomplete. The closet seemed empty too； most of it was her stuff anyway. But there they were at the bottom， piled up like they usually were， every single one of them. Why did she leave her shoes？ She couldn’t have forgotten them， I knew too well that she took great pride in her shoe collection， but there they still were， right down to her favorite pair of sandals. They were black with a design etched into the wide band that stretched across the top of them， the soles scuffed and worn； a delicate imprint of where her toes rested was visible in the soft fabric.
It seemed funny to me， she walked out of my life without her shoes， is that irony， or am I thinking of something else？ In a way I was glad they were still here， she would have to come back for them， right？ I mean how could she go on with the rest of her life without her shoes？ But she‘s not coming back， I know she isn’t， she would rather walk barefoot over glass than have to see me again. But Christ she left all of her shoes！ All of them， every sneaker， boot and sandal， every high heel and clog， every flip-flop. What do I do？ Do I leave them here， or bag them up and throw them in the trash？ Do I look at them every morning when I get dressed and wonder why she left them？ She knew it， she knows what‘s she’s doing. I can‘t throw them out for fear she may return for them someday. I can’t be rid of myself of her completely with all her shoes still in my life， can‘t dispose of them or the person that walked in them.
Her shoes， leaving a deep footprint on my heart， I can’t sweep it away. All I can do is stare at them and wonder， stare at their laces and straps their buttons and tread. They still connect me to her though， in some distant bizarre way they do. I can remember the good times we had， what pair she was wearing at that moment in time. They are hers and no else‘s， she wore down the heels， and she scuffed their sides， it’s her fragile footprint imbedded on the insole. I sit on the floor next to them and wonder how many places had she gone while wearing these shoes， how many miles she walked in them， what pair was she wearing when she decided to leave me？ I pick up a high heel she often wore and absently smell it， it‘s not disgusting I think， it’s just the last tangible link I have to her. The last bit of reality I have of her. She left her shoes； she took everything else， except her shoes. They remain at the bottom of my closet， a shrine to her memory.
