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There was one thing my murderer didn't understand he didn't understand how much a father could love his child.

Alice Sebold

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Alice Sebold
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: September 6
Novelist
Writer
Madison
Wisconsin
Children
Thing
Much
Love
Murderer
Child
Understand
Father
Didn

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I think that if you're somebody who's a control freak, the process would make you crazy, but I'm kind of a process freak, so I'm excited to see what he does with it. I know it's not going to be my book, so just starting with that knowledge frees me from having to get all freaked out about it.
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I like gardening - it's a place where I find myself when I need to lose myself.
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I wake up very early in the morning. I like to start in the dark, and I never work at night, because my brain is evaporated by 4 p.m.
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How could it be that you could love someone so much and keep it secret from yourself as you woke daily so far from home?
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It's very weird to succeed at thirty-nine years old and realize that in the midst of your failure, you were slowly building the life that you wanted anyway.
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He would find his Susie,inside his young son. Give that love to the living.
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The alcohol had the effect of making the black cloth blacker. This amused her she had noted in her journal: booze affects material as it does people.
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The damage can fester under layers of time and change, and an ignorant, thoughtless remark can easily reopen the wound.
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The shadow of years was not as big on his small body. He knew I was away . But when people left they always came back.
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Because horror on Earth is real and it is every day. It is like a flower or like the sun it cannot be contained.
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But I know I would not go out. I had taken this time to fall in love instead — in love with the sort of helplessness I had not felt in death — the helplessness of being alive, the dark bright pity of being human — feeling as you went, groping in corners and opening your arms to light - all of it part of navigating the unknown.
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Your first kiss is destiny knocking.
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So there are cakes and pillows and colors galore, but underneath this more obvious patchwork quilt are places like a quiet room where you can go and hold someone's hand and not have to say anything.
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Hey, Ocean Eyes,” my father said. “Where’d you go on us?
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As she brought prospective buyers through, the realtor said it was an oil stain, but it was me, seeping out of the bag.
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I left my mark on that man.
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The sun came through the branches of the tree above her, and Ruth looked up past them. I think she listens, she said, too softly to be heard.
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What did dead mean, Ray wondered. It meant lost, it meant frozen, it meant gone.
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At fourteen, my sister sailed away from me into a place I’d never been. In the walls of my sex there was horror and blood, in the walls of hers there were windows.
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Before, they had never found themselves broken together. Usually, it was one needing the other but not both needing each other, and so there had been a way, by touching, to borrow from the stronger one's strength.
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