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Why Do Friends Drift Apart Quotes & Sayings

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Why Do Friends Drift Apart Quotes By Vladimir Nabokov

I cannot help feeling there is something essentially wrong about love. Friends may quarrel or drift apart, close relations too, but there is not this pang, this pathos, this fatality which clings to love. Friendship never has that doomed look. Why, what is the matter? I have not stopped loving you, but because I cannot go on kissing your dim dear face, we must part, we must part. — Vladimir Nabokov

Why Do Friends Drift Apart Quotes By Stephen Leacock

I've seen lifelong friends drift apart over golf just because one could play better, but the other counted better. — Stephen Leacock

Why Do Friends Drift Apart Quotes By Abigail Haas

My mom shows me her old yearbooks, and there are tons of people in there she doesn't talk to anymore. Old boyfriends, best friends ... What do you think happened to them?"
"Maybe they drifted apart."
"That's stupid. You don't drift, not if someone matters to you."
"So maybe they didn't matter, not really."
"Anna?"
"Yeah?"
"I'd never do that. Leave you."
"I know. Me either. — Abigail Haas

Why Do Friends Drift Apart Quotes By Cecelia Ahern

Apart from them, Kitty had never been able to keep friends, not because she was disloyal in any way, she just felt that she hadn't connected with anyone deeply since her school friends and so it was easy to drift away as life moved on, as college finished and as she found new jobs and created new friendships that lasted as long as the jobs had. — Cecelia Ahern

Why Do Friends Drift Apart Quotes By Alana Stewart

Being friends with anyone for 30 years is no easy task - people change, they drift apart, they move on. — Alana Stewart

Why Do Friends Drift Apart Quotes By Hilary Mantel

Let's say I will rip your life apart. Me and my banker friends.
How can he explain that to him? The world is not run from where he thinks. Not from border fortresses, not even from Whitehall. The world is run from Antwerp, from Florence, from places he has never imagined; from Lisbon, from where the ships with sails of silk drift west and are burned up in the sun. Not from the castle walls, but from counting houses, not be the call of the bugle, but by the click of the abacus, not by the grate and click of the mechanism of the gun but by the scrape of the pen on the page of the promissory note that pays for the gun and the gunsmith and the powder and shot. — Hilary Mantel