Camilla Gibb Quotes
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It is not simply what one remembers, but why. There are sites of amputation where the past is severed from the body of the present. Remembering only encourages the growth of phantom limbs. And it is not simply what one remembers, or why, but what to do with what one remembers, which of the scattered pieces to carry forward, what to protect and preserve, what to leave behind.
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Ethiopia doesn't matter to the West," I say, stating the obvious. "We offer them nothing they can exploit.
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We come to know ourselves only through stories. We listen to the stories of others, we inherit the stories of those who came before, and we make sense of our own experiences by constructing a narrative that holds them, and holds us, together. Stories are how we make sense of our lives.
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I suspect we can all be domesticated by love, but when love is threatened or broken, our suspicions and mistrust are confirmed. Experience has made us this way.........Because if you believe in what's promised, if you become invested, you take the risk of a broken heart.
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I marvelled at her capabilities as a mother - naturally empathic but no pushover, funny and generous, frank about her own limitations and the challenges of parenting, loving and affectionate but unsentimental - absolutely solid in her role.
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My body is a whisper where hers is a shout.
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The reality of this wide-eyed caramel-coloured wonder was arresting. This was the future, alive and kicking in my arms.
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If only I could rest for a time in quiet pain and awaken new and willing. He is looking forward and I am inward.
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She kisses the children goodnight, leaving lipstick on their foreheads and a trail of Chanel No.5.
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Writing made it tolerable to be human in a way nothing else ever had. It gave me a place to thrive, to exorcise, to cultivate some understanding of aspects of being human that were otherwise confounding.
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I was not always a Muslim, but once I was led into the absorption of prayer and the mysteries of the Qur’an, something troubled in me became still.
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The velvet darkness of his face
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It is his absence that is part of me and has been for years. This is who I am, perhaps who we all are, keepers of the absent and the dead. It is the blessing and burden of being alive.
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I never expected to be happy, to have a sense of belonging somewhere. I didn't grow up with a sense that this was possible or even desirable. I'm quite sure my parents didn't either, so I come by this honestly.
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You would fancy any man who gave you baklava," I tease. "You think I am some kind of sharmuta for sweets?
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If someone eliminates the obstacles you believe to be in front of you, then you have no choice but to try. Fail spectacularly, if you will, but try.
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Believing that all has been ordained by God can lead to fatalism, but fatalism is not the same thing as belief. It's a cheat: an abdication of responsibility.
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The smell of home was indistinguishable from the smell of leaving home: each inhalation a mix of familiarity and fear.
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Girls are not passive by nature. They are only so because the culture demands they be.
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That idea is strange to me. People keep on loving? People keep on loving even if you are not there in their face everyday to remind them? People keep on loving even if they no longer see you at all? People keep on loving even if they are loving someone else? Impossible: to believe you can be loved in absence when you don't even know how it feels to be loved when you are there.
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Once you step inside, history has to be rewritten to include you. A fiction develops a story that weaves you into the social fabric, giving you roots and a local identity. You are assimilated, and in erasing your differences and making you one of their own, the community can maintain belief in its wholeness and purity. After two or three generations, nobody remembers the story is fiction. It has become fact. And this is how history is made.
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It is harder in many ways to live in the middle than at the edges. Much harder to interpret as you see fit, because then you have no assurance you are doing right in the eyes of God, no confidence you will be rewarded in the afterlife
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I've tried to read, but I can't make it through more than a paragraph at a time. The floor is littered with abandoned newspapers and yogurt pots.
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He wrote the future onto my face with his lips.