Love, as most know, follows its own timeline. Disregarding our intentions or well rehearsed plans. ― Leslye Walton, The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender. (Candlewick March 25, 2014)
She had seen fear: the terrible helpless fear that rises up out of sadness and despair and is no longer attached to anything— the helpless fear that is tied only to nothingness. Not fear or anxiety or despair about a person or a situation, nothing, nothing, only the exposure, the vulnerability, being cast loose from… Continue reading Hans Keilson
Grief is desire in its purest distillation. With the first grave — the first time a name was sown in the earth — the invention of memory. — Anne Michaels, The Winter Vault. (Knopf; 1st edition April 21, 2009)
The moon looks wonderful in this warm evening light, just as a candle flame looks beautiful in the light of morning. Light withing light. It seems like a metaphor for something. So much does. Ralph Waldo Emerson is excellent on this point. It seems to me to be a metaphor for the human soul, the… Continue reading Marilynne Robinson
In March the soft rains continued, and each storm waited courteously until its predecessor sunk beneath the ground. ― John Steinbeck, East of Eden. (Penguin Books February 5, 2002) Originally published 1952.
We mustn’t give trouble a shape before it throws its shadow. ― Irene Hunt, Across Five Aprils. (Berkley; Reprint edition January 8, 2002) Originally published 1964.
Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. – Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin. (Virago Press Ltd; New Ed edition May 19, 2001)