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Perhaps growing up meant we put our knives away and feigned ignorance of the damage.

Barbara Kingsolver

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Barbara Kingsolver
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: April 8
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Annapolis
Maryland
Knives
Damage
Meant
Ignorance
Perhaps
Growing
Away
Feigned

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It's one thing to carry your life wherever you go. Another thing to always go looking for it somewhere else.
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Our house is like an empty cigarette packet, lying around reminding you what's not in it.
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There is something in us that loves certain disasters and the fever of this moment and surrendering to that.
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How pointless life could be, what a foolish business of inventing things to love, just so you could dread losing them.
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there are people who read my work and accuse me of being political! As far as I'm concerned that's like accusing a dog of having a bark!
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I grew up aware of all the people I depended on and who depended on me.
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The wrong words are impossible when there are no words.
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Your own family resemblances are a frustrating code, most easily read by those who know you least.
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The gods you do not pay are the ones that can curse you best.
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The arrogance of the able-bodied is staggering. Yes, maybe we'd like to be able to get places quickly, and carry things in both hands but only because we have to keep up with the rest of you ... We would rather be just like us, and have that be all right.
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a meaningless phrase repeated again and again begins to resemble truth.
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Loose lips sink ships.
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It's the one thing we never quite get over: that we contain our own future.
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If I had to give up my life for anything, it would have to have the resilience of hope, the elation of new literacy, the brilliant life of a field of flowers, the elementary kindness of bread. Nothing short of that. It would have to be something as sure as love.
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What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all.
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It is completely usual for me to get up in the morning, take a look around, and laugh out loud.
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People ask without wanting to know.
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Want is a thing that unfurls unbidden like fungus, opening large upon itself, stopless, filling the sky. But needs, from one day to the next, are few enough to fit in a bucket, with room enough left to rattle like brittle brush in a dry wind.
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I have my own sheep and I literally sheer the sheep and knot sweaters for friends and family from scratch.
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The death of something living is the price of our own survival, and we pay it again and again. We have no choice. It is the one solemn promise every life on earth is born and bound to keep.
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