I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined body, but it's no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It's been there awhile, biding it's time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there's really no fighting it.
Sometimes when you get older — and I’m not talking about you, I’m talking generally, because everyone ages differently — things you think on and wish on start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they’re part of your history, and if someone challenges you on them and says they’re not true — why, then you get offended because you can’t remember the first part. All you know is that you’ve been called a liar.
Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn.
Although, pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing.
I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.
Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.
When did I stop being me?
They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
I'm truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and - when I am really lazy - feed my three kids in less than five minutes.
But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were up to our eyeballs, and the next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and alone.
The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
i'm afraid to breathe in case i break the spell
I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.
Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can't find myself any more. When did I stop being me?
Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?
Gorillas are in danger of being wiped out by the Ebola virus. I feel like we have limited time to get to know them and understand them and they're going to disappear - that's terrifically sad. Wouldn't it be great if we could stop that?
I think there is just a vein of humanity that really loves animals and really loves to read about them.
You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.
Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.
So what if I'm ninety-three? So what if I'm ancient and cranky and my body's a wreck? If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?
Juliet is one of those rare novels that has it all: lush prose, tightly intertwined parallel narratives, intrigue, and historical detail all set against a backdrop of looming danger. Anne Fortier casts a new light on one of history's greatest stories of passion. I was swept away.
I just think I'm better equipped to make a study of human personality than trying to get into the mind of animals.
At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.
My platitudes don't hold their interest and I can hardly blame them for that. My real stories are all out of date. So what if I can speak firsthand about the Spanish flu, the advent of the automobile, world wars, cold wars, guerrilla wars, and Sputnik — that's all ancient history now. But what else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That's the reality of getting old, and I guess that's really the crux of the matter. I'm not ready to be old yet.
I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.
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