Sara Gruen Quotes
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I used to think I preferred getting old to the alternative, but now I'm not sure. Sometimes the momotony of bingo and sing-alongs and ancient dusty people parked in the hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for death. Particularly when I rememver that I'm one of the ancient dusty people, filed away like some worthless tchotchke.
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Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can't find myself any more. When did I stop being me?
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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.
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Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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When will people learn that just because you can make something doesn’t mean you should?
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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.
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They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
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I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.
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It's just a crazy damned life, that's all.
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The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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I think there is just a vein of humanity that really loves animals and really loves to read about them.
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Sometimes I think that if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn. Not that I wouldn't love to have a final roll in the hay - I am a man yet, and something never die - but the thought of those sweet kernels bursting between my teeth sure sets my mouth to watering. It's fantasy, I know that. Neither will happen. I just like to weight the options, as though I were standing in front of Solomon: a final roll in the hay or an ear of corn. What a wonderful dilemma. Sometimes I substitute an apple for the corn.
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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?
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You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.
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I roll onto my side and stare out the venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I'm lulled into a sort of peace. The sky, the sky--same as it always was.
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How hard can it be to find a girl and an elephant for Christ's sake?
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Afterward, I curl around her. We lie in silence until darkness falls, and then, haltingly, she begins to talk...She speaks without need or even room for response, so I simply hold her and stroke her hair. She talks of the pain, grief, and horror of the past four years; of learning to cope with being the wife of a man so violent and unpredictable his touch made her skin crawl and of thinking, until quite recently, that she'd finally managed to do that. And then, finally, of how my appearance had forced her to realize she hadn't learned to cope at all.
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I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.
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...if you expect people to try to do things your way, you're going to have to give some hints as to what that way is.
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Although there are times I'd give anything to have her back, I'm glad she went first. Losing her was like being cleft down the middle. It was the moment it all ended for me, and I wouldn't have wanted her to go through that.
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I just think I'm better equipped to make a study of human personality than trying to get into the mind of animals.
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I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
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After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled.
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The only thing that makes me crazier than writing is not writing.