The world was an awfully large place and it wasn't easy to find a person who'd gone missing sixty years earlier, even if that person was oneself.
True love, it's like an illness. I never understood it before. In books and plays. Poems. I never understood what drove otherwise intelligent, right-thinking people to do such extravagant, irrational things. Now I do. It's an illness. You can catch it when you least expect. There's no known cure. And sometimes, in its most extreme, it's fatal.
...She's understood the power of stories. Their magical ability to refill the wounded part of people.
... people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.
She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.
My fingers positively itched to drift at length along their spines, to arrive at one whose lure I could not pass, to pluck it down, to inch it open, then to close my eyes and inhale the soul-sparking scent of old and literate dust.
I'm good with words, but not the spoken kind; I've often thought what a marvelous thing it would be if I could only conduct relationships on paper.
In retrospect, it seems like everything in my life led to me becoming a writer. I just didn't realise it at the time.
If you don't stop apologizing, you're going to convince me you've done something wrong.
In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.
The stretch of years leaves none unmarked: the blissful sense of youthful invincibility peels away and responsibility brings its weight to bear.
It's special, grandparents and grandchldren. So much simpler. Is it always so, I wonder? I think perhaps it is. While one's child takes a part of one's heart to use and misuse as they please, a grandchild is different. Gone are the bonds of guilt and responsibility that burden the maternal relationship. The way to love is free.
Cassandra's grandmother smiled then, only it wasn't a happy smile. Cassandra thought she knew how it felt to smile like that. She often did so herself when her mother promised her something she really wanted but knew might not happen.
She doesn't know I cry for the changing times. That just as I reread favourite books, some small part of me hoping for a different ending, I find myself hoping against hope that the war will never come. That this time, somehow, it will leave us be.
Curiosity might have killed the cat, but little girls usually fared much better.
I probably coughed self-pityingly in response, little aware that I was about to cross a tremendous threshold beyond which there would be no return, that in my hands I held an object whose simple appearance belied its profound power. All true readers have a book, a moment, like the one I describe, and when Mum offered me that much-read library copy mine was upon me.
Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
But history is a faithless teller whose cruel recourse to hindsight makes fools of its actors.
Adults weren’t supposed to understand their children and you were doing something wrong if they did.
Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down, before they knew their endings.
Children don’t require of their parents a past and they find something faintly unbelievable, almost embarrassing, in parental claims to a prior existence.
Percy climbed the first step, then the next, remembering the thousands of times she'd run through the door, in a hurry to get to the future, to whatever was coming next, to this moment.
She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
There's a market for mysteries for adults. That feeling of opening a book and delving inside and not coming out until you've closed the book.
I simply love writing good stories, that's my passion.
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