Happiness in life is not a given, it must be seized.
She says there are stories everywhere and that people who wait for the right one to come along before setting pen to paper end up with very empty pages.
Lil had always believed that a person's duty was to make the best of the hand they were dealt. No use wondering what might have been, she used to say, all that matters is what is.
And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away.
I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .
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.
She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
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.
Always remember, with a strong enough will, even the weak can wield great power.
Oh, there was harm indeed for a young lady flattered by the brief attentions of a handsome man.
...which fairy-tale princess ever chose her maid over her prince?
Thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing. Thinking of everything.
The girl in the mirror caught my eye briefly...It is an uncanny feeling, that rare occasion when one catches a glimpse of oneself in repose. An unguarded moment, stripped of artifice, when one forgets to fool even oneself.
Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.
There were two now where they had been three. David's death had dismantled the triangle, and an enclosed space was now open. Two points are unreliable; with nothing to anchor them, there is nothing to stop them drifting in opposite directions. If it is string that binds, it will eventually snap and the points will separate; if elastic, they will continue to part, further and further, until the strain reaches its limit and they are pulled back with such speed that they cannot help but collide with devastating force.
It didn't occur to him that she might have chosen to remain this way. That where he saw reserve and loneliness, Cassandra saw self-preservation and the knowledge that it was safer when one had less to lose.
Wars make history seem deceptively simple. They provide clear turning points, easy distinctions.: before and after, winner and loser, right and wrong. True history, the past, is not like that. It isn't flat or linear. It has no outline. It is slippery, like liquid; infinite and unknowable, like space. And it is changeable: just when you think you see a pattern, perspective shifts, an alternate version is proffered, a long-forgotten memory resurfaces.
You must learn to know the difference between tales and the truth, my Liza, she would say. Fairy tales have a habit of ending too soon. They never show what happens afterwards when the prince and princess ride off the page.
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.
A way of looking at you that told you she was listening, that she understood all you were saying, and all you weren't.
So much in life came down to timing.
Darling girl, blinded by foolish thoughts of love. How to tell her that the hearts of men were not so easily won. If won, rarely kept.
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