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My reflection in the mirror shows me pink and puffy. I thought pregnant women were to supposed to glow. I am not glowing.

Audrey Niffenegger

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Audrey Niffenegger
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: June 13
Artist
Author
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
University Teacher
Visual Artist
Writer
South Haven
Michigan
Glow
Shows
Glowing
Thought
Pink
Women
Pregnant
Mirror
Mirrors
Reflection
Puffy
Supposed

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What is more basic than the need to be known? It is the entirety of intimacy, the elixir of love, this knowing.
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Listen, sometimes when you finally find out, you realize that you were much better off not knowing.
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We are often insane with happiness. We are also very unhappy for reasons neither of us can do anything about. Like being separated.
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I told Ing once that she dances like a German and she didn't like it, but it's true: she dances seriously, like lives are hanging in the balance, like precision dancing can save the starving children of India.
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What we need,' Henry says, 'is a fresh start. A blank slate. Let's call her Tabula Rasa.
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There is only one page left to write on. I will fill it with words of only one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.
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I wish for a moment that time would lift me out of this day, and into some more benign one. But then I feel guilty for wanting to avoid the sadness dead people need us to remember them, even if it eats us, even if all we can do is say I'm sorry until it is as meaningless air.
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I won't ever leave you, even though you're always leaving me.
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we both smile and we are conspirators.
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I don't want to boss anyone and I don't want to be bossed.
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Running is many things to me: survival, calmness, euphoria, solitude. It is proof of my corporeal existence, my ability to control my movement through space if not time, and the obedience, however temporary, of my body to my will. As I run I displace air, and things come and go around me, and the path moves like a filmstrip beneath my feet.
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You can still be cool when you’re dead. In fact, it’s much easier, because you aren’t getting old and fat and losing your hair.
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Time passes and the pain begins to roll in and out as though it’s a woman standing at an ironing board, passing the iron back and forth, back and forth across a white tablecloth.
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I breathe slowly and deeply. I make my eyes still under eyelids, I make my mind still, and soon, Sleep, seeing a perfect reproduction of himself, comes to be united with his facsimile.
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Maybe I'm dreaming you. Maybe you're dreaming me maybe we only exist in each other's dreams and every morning when we wake up we forget all about each other.
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I wanted someone to love who would stay: stay and be there, always.
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When it's over you look up: the world looks the same but you are somehow different and that feeling lingers for days.
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She looks up at me, still rocking. “Henry . . . why did me decide to do this again?” “Supposedly when it’s over they hand you a baby and let you keep it.” “Oh yeah.” --Wednesday, September 5, 2001
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I never understood why Clark Kent was so hell bent on keeping Lois Lane in the dark.
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He thanked her and left the house in the mood of a shipwrecked man who has allowed the rescue ship to pass him by.
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