You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
A girl expecting rescue never learns to save herself. Even with the means, she will find her courage wanting.
Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.
The happiest folk are those that are busy, for their minds are starved of time to seek out woe.
It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
No two people will ever see or feel things in the same way, Merry. The challenge is to be truthful when you write. Don't approximate. Don't settle for the easiest combination of words. Go searching instead for those that explain exactly what you think. What you feel.
Cassandra always hid when she read, though she never quite knew why. It was as if she couldn't shake the guilty suspicion that she was being lazy, that surrendering herself so completely to something so enjoyable must surely be wrong. But surrender she did. Let herself drop through the rabbit hole and into a tale of magic and mystery.
He had the vague sense of standing on a threshold, the crossing of which would change everything.
Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.
A true friend is a light in the dark. Viven
In real life turning points are sneaky. They pass by unlabeled and unheeded. Opportunities are missed, catastrophes unwittingly celebrated. Turning points are only uncovered later, by historians who seek to bring order to a lifetime of tangled moments.
Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.
What could be more perfect than marrying the person you love.
I write what I'd like to read and just hope that, along the way, others might like to read them, too.
All true readers have a book, a moment when real life is never going to be able to compete with fiction again.
It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.
The certainty that she would find what it was she sought just slipped away, until one night she knew there was nothing, no one waiting for her. That no matter how far she walked, how carefully she searched, how much she wanted to find the person she was looking for, she was alone" - The Forgotten Garden
It was the sibling thing, I suppose. I was fascinated by the intricate tangle of love and duty and resentment that tied them together. The glances they exchanged; the complicated balance of power established over decades; the games I would never play with rules I would never fully understand. And perhaps that was key: they were such a natural group that they made me feel remarkably singular by comparison. To watch them together was to know strongly, painfully, all that I'd been missing.
It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.
Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
She either confused me with a much older child or else she glimpsed deep inside my soul and perceived a hole that needed filling. I've always chosen to believe the latter. After all, it's the librarian's one sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.
A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: "Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.
In retrospect, it seems like everything in my life led to me becoming a writer. I just didn't realise it at the time.
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