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Oh, that river of wishes, the slippery crocodile dream of it, how it might have carried my body down through all the glittering sand bars to the sea.

Barbara Kingsolver

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Barbara Kingsolver
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: April 8
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Annapolis
Maryland
Bars
Crocodile
Rivers
Crocodiles
Sea
Glittering
Wish
Slippery
Dream
Wishes
Body
Carried
Might
Sand
River

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Children can be your heartache. But that doesn't matter, you have to go on and have them . . . it works out.
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Wherever I am, let me never forget to distinguish want from need
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Sometimes the strength of motherhood is greater than natural laws.
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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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Nine-tenths of human law is about possession.
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Life proceeds, it enrages. The untouched ones spend their luck without a thought, believing they deserve it.
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Literature is one of the few kinds of writing in the world that does not tell you what to buy, want, see, be, or believe. It's more like conversation, raising new questions and inspiring you to answer them for yourself.
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A first child is your own best foot forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world. But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that' s love by a different name.
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I know people. Most have no earthly notion of the price of a snow-white conscience.
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Fiction is a sort of inter-human magic, allowing you to travel into a scene and feel it tingle on your skin.
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Forgive me, O Heavenly Father, according to the multitude of Thy mercies. I have lusted in my heart to break a man's skull and scatter the stench of his brains across several people's back yards.
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Everything truly important is washable.
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Be careful what you give children, for sooner or later you are sure to get it back.
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Pain reaches the heart with electrical speed, but truth moves to the heart as slowly as a glacier.
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The substance of grief is not imaginary. It's as real as rope or the absence of air, and like both those things, it can kill.
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This story about good food begins in a quick-stop convenience market.
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The writing has been on the wall for some years now, but we are a nation illiterate in the language of the wall. The writing just gets bigger. Something will eventually bring down the charming, infuriating naïveté of Americans that allows us our blithe consumption and cheerful ignorance of the secret ugliness that bring us whatever we want.
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There's always more to a story than a body can see from the fenceline.
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A dog can't think that much about what he's doing, he just does what feels right.
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...whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. And peace will be with you.
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