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.
when you love someone you’ll do just about anything to keep them.
She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.
You'll beat this. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you will. You're a survivor." "I don't want to survive it." "I know that, too," Nell had said. "And it's fair enough. But sometimes we don't have a choice.
But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
We're all unique, just never in the ways we imagine.
Thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing. Thinking of everything.
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.
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.
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.
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