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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
Didn
Children
Thing
Much
Love
Murderer
Child
Understand
Father

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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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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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You save yourself or you remain unsaved.
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These things, she felt, were not to be passed around like disingenuous party favors. She kept an honor code with her journals and her poems. 'Inside, inside,' she would whisper quietly to herself when she felt the urge to tell.
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As if in the other side of his kiss there could ve a new life
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Do you miss Susie? Because it was dark, because Ruth was facing away from her,because Ruth was almost a stranger, Lindsey said what she felt. More than anyone will ever know.
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Out loud I said I had two children. Silently I said three. I always felt like apologizing to her for that.
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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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If I had but an hour of love,if that be all that is given me,an hour of love upon this earth,I would give my love to thee.
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People grow up by living.
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I had rescued the moment by using my camera and in that way had found how to stop time and hold it. No one could take that image away from me because I owned it.
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He took the hat from my mouth. ''Tell me you love me'', he said. Gently I did. The end came anyway
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Each time I told my story, I lost a bit, the smallest drop of pain. It was that day that I knew I wanted to tell the story of my family. 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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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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At the tips of the feathers there is air and at their base: blood. I hold up bones I wish like broken glass they could court light....still I try to place these pieces back together, to set them firm, to make murdered girls live again.
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If I shut my eyes, I believed, I would disappear. To make it through, I had to be present the whole time.
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But also I wanted him to go away and leave me be. I was granted one weak grace. Back in the room where the green chair was still warm from his body, I blew that lonely, flickering candle out
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I have always felt extremely weird. But I am very happy with my weirdnesses, and I want other people to be very happy with theirs.
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You could not be filled with hate and be beautiful. Like any other girl, I wanted to be beautiful. But I was filled with hate.
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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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