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That's what alcoholics do. It's in their job description: fall apart and then keep falling apart.

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
Description
Falling
Apart
Jobs
Fall
Keep
Alcoholics

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When somebody is that patient, you have to feel grateful, and then you want to hurt them. Does that make any sense?
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It's funny how we like labels. If I ever have a bookstore, I'm not going to put any labels on the sections.
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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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In the dim light of the computer screen he seemed otherworldly Julia thought him beautiful, though she knew it was the beauty of damage.
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There was only the cemetery itself, spread out in the moonlight like a soft grey hallucination, a stony wilderness of Victorian melancholy.
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Chaos is more freedom in fact, total freedom. But no meaning.
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Everything seems simple until you think about it.
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...and I suddenly feel that Henry is there, incredible need for Henry to be there and to put his hand on me even while it seems to me that Henry is the rain and I am alone and wanting him - Clare
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Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this strange life of mine that I could ever trust.
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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 hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And yet, I am always going. - Henry deTamble
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I feel that I an everything to her.
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Home sweet home. No place like home. Take me home, country roads. Home is where the heart is. But my heart is here. So I must be home. Clare sighs, turns her head, and is quiet. Hi, honey. I'm home. I'm home.
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Think for a minute, darling: in fairy tales it's always the children who have the fine adventures. The mothers have to stay at home and wait for the children to fly in the window.
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There's always world enough and time.
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I look at him, look at the book, remember, this book, this moment, the first book I ever loved
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When the woman you live with is an artist, every day is a surprise.
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But you know: you know that if I could have stayed, if I could have gone on, that I would have clutched every second: whatever it was, this death, you know that it came and took me, like a child carried away by goblins.
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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.
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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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