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Sometimes he felt sure that the key to happiness was a poor memory.

Ann Brashares

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Ann Brashares
Age: 57
Born: 1967
Born: July 30
Film Writer
Novelist
Writer
City of Alexandria
Virginia
Memory
Keys
Memories
Sure
Poor
Happiness
Felt
Sometimes

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He was the strangest of strangers in that he was also her oldest friend.
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He tricked himself into thinking that she would look into his eyes and remember, that love would conquer all.
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She'd cried over a broken heart before. She knew what that felt like, and it didn't feel like this. Her heart felt not so much broken as just ... empty. It felt like she was an outline empty in the middle. The outline cried senselessly for the absent middle. The past cried for the present that was nothing.
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She wondered if maybe tragedy was what it took to make your heart capable of admitting a new member.
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Love yourself and your friends unconditionally .
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There were those emotions down there, and though she couldn't quite feel them, they were strong and she feared them. It was like watching a thunderhead from high up in a plane, and though you weren't under it, you knew how it would feel if you were. You knew you'd have to land eventually.
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His distress and pleasure mixed and married, giving birth to several anxious children.
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What happened to me by myself felt partly dreamed, partly imagined, definitely shifted and warped by my own fears and wants. But who knows? Maybe there is more truth in how you feel than in what actually happens.
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She kept walking. The very small, brave part of her brain knew that this would be her one chance. If she turned around, she would lose it.
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I allowed myself to suffer how jarringly destructive the present feels and how fragile the past.
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She thought she was independent and strong, but she got one small taste of love and she was hungrier than anyone. She was ravenous.
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She wasn’t sure if he wanted more from her or if he wanted less. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was always both.
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Her vision of the world under the water represented a beautiful stillness, a version of heaven. It was the lost city of Lena, her alternate universe, the life she yearned for but didn't get to have.
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Show me a girl with her feet planted firmly on the ground and I'll show you a girl who can't put her pants on. -Annik Marchand
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As a writer, you live in such isolation. It's hard to imagine your book has a life beyond you.
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There was one thing Bridget like about guys. They took insults well.
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Her body was a prison, her mind was a prison. Her memories were a prison. The people she loved. She couldn't get away from the hurt of them. She could leave Eric, walk out of her apartment, walk forever if she liked, but she couldn't escape what really hurt. Tonight even the sky felt like a prison.
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She had never had a boy talk to her like that. There was no cover of bullshit, no flirtation, no added charm, but his look was searing. He was different from anyone she had known.
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She must have sensed she never really had him. That was a sadness of hers, he knew.
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Maybe happiness was just a matter of the little upticks- the traffic signal that said Walk the second you go there- and downticks- the itch tag at the back of your collar- that happened to every person in the course of the day. Maybe everybody had the same allotted measure of happiness within each day.
Ann Brashares