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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.

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
Anything
Separated
Reason
Insane
Like
Unhappy
Reasons
Neither
Happiness
Often
Also

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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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Don't you think it's better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?
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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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...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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That's what alcoholics do. It's in their job description: fall apart and then keep falling apart.
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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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Chaos is more freedom in fact, total freedom. But no meaning.
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I feel that I an everything to her.
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He would say her name over and over until it devolved into meaningless sounds - mah REI kuh, mah REI kuh - it became an entry in a dictionary of loneliness.
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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'm living under water. Everything seems slow and far away. I know there's a world up there, a sunlit quick world where time runs like dry sand through an hourglass, but down here, where I am, air and sound and time and feeling are thick and dense.
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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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absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird
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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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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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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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I don't want to boss anyone and I don't want to be bossed.
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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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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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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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