She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.
His words had tossed the book that was her life into the air and the pages had been blown into disarray, could never be put back together to tell the same story.
Hope, how she had grown to hate the word. It was an insideious seed planted inside a person's soul, surviving covertly on little tending, then flowering so spectacularly that none could help but cherish it.
There’s something about hospital walls; though only made of bricks and plaster, when you’re inside them the noise, the reality of the teeming city beyond, disappears; it’s just outside the door, but it might as well be a magical land far, far away.
Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?
Oh, there was harm indeed for a young lady flattered by the brief attentions of a handsome man.
Always remember, with a strong enough will, even the weak can wield great power.
I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.
Better to lose oneself in action than to wither in despair.
Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.
Will history remember us, I wonder? I do hope so - to imagine that one might do something, touch an event somehow, & thereby transcend the bounds of a single human lifetime!
Some say I'm an overnight success. Well, that was a very long night that lasted about 10 years. But while I do, of course, now feel the pressure having had books that have been very successful, I just know I have to concentrate on writing for myself. I can't worry about genres or markets or what might be commercial or not. That never works.
Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
People might think writing is a hard business, but it's nowhere near acting.
I sound contemptuous, but I am not. I am interested--intrigued even--by the way time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints. Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain.
I'd pretty much given up hope of being published, so I just wrote the book I wanted to read.
I love the structural part of the writing process.
She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.
...which fairy-tale princess ever chose her maid over her prince?
Thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing. Thinking of everything.
She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.
I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.
But in my humble opinion, a house needs a good party once in a while; remind folks it exists.
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