Benedict Freedman Quotes
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I turned my face to the sky and laughed because the things you enjoy can’t hurt you.
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But death does not stand at the end of life, it is all through it. It is the fear of losing, the knowledge of losing that makes love tender.
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When little things are so important, it's because there aren't any big ones.
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I felt afraid. No one would know that, not Mother and not Mike. I’d keep the fear pushed down inside of me, and no one would know it was there. “I’m awfully happy,” I wrote. I was. Awfully happy and awfully in love, and tomorrow I was marrying Mike.
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On the north side of the train the windows were plastered with snow, and on the south side great clouds of snow were whipped along by a sixty-mile gale. There was snow on top of the train and snow under the train, and all the snow there was left in the.
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Katherine Mary, we're going to know each other very wel, for many years, I hope. You'll see, you'll come to understand. These big things, these terrible things, are not important ones. If they were, how could one go on living? No, it is the small, little things that make up a day, that bring fullness and happiness to a life. Your sergeant coming home, a good dinner, your little Mary laughing, the smell of the woods- oh, so many things, you know them yourself.
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I woke myself up to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, that Mike was really beside me. I kissed the pillow close up near his cheek because I didn’t want to wake him. He opened one eye and grinned at me. “Don’t waste ’em, kitten."
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You'll see, you'll come to understand. These big things, these terrible things, are not the important ones. If they were, how could one go on living? No, it is the small, little things that make up a day, that bring fullness and happiness to a life.
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Mike was right: the pattern of life isn't a straight line; it crosses and recrosses, drawing in and tying together other lives, as I do when I gather in the ends of my thread to make a knot.
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Every night we stopped in a cabin where wood had been stacked, matches left, and canned goods laid out for the chance traveler. All the unknown host received in return was a scribbled note giving our thanks, any news we could think of, and our names. This whole system of northern hospitality was a gigantic chain, for while we were eating this man’s beans, he was undoubtedly farther up the trail, eating somebody else’s.