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This is the forked tongue of grief again. It whispers in one ear: return to what you once loved best, and in the other ear it whispers, move on.

Chris Cleave

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Chris Cleave
Age: 51
Born: 1973
Born: May 14
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
London
England
Best
Whispers
Tongue
Grief
Ears
Return
Move
Loved
Moving
Forked

More quotes by Chris Cleave

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You may think that's funny Osama but you never can squeeze every last bit of pride out of a human being. It's like a tube of toothpaste. You can twist it and you can crush it but there's always a tiny bit left isn't there?
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If your face is swollen from the severe beatings of life, smile and pretend to be a fat man.
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Our stories are the tellers of us.
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I was carrying two cargoes. Yes, one of them was horror, but the other one was hope.
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There was no quick grief for Andrew because he had been so slowly lost. First from my heart, then from my mind, and only finally from my life.
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Still shaking, in the pew, I understood that it isn't the dead we cry for. We cry for ourselves, and I didn't deserve my own pity.
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I like to push characters to extremes so they have to make really tough decisions and there is no life more extreme than that of an athlete.
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[My maternal grandmother ] was a teacher in London and elsewhere during the war, although the children she taught were not the lost children who feature in the novel - those come from my research.
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Something I am now convinced of, after researching Everyone Brave, is that none of us is born courageous in all respects.
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Andrew had a gift for deepening the incision he began.
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I think bravery means a different thing to everyone.
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It was hard not to be full of hope
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Sad words are just another beauty. A sad story means, this storyteller is alive
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WWII was, without exaggeration, the biggest event in all of human history, and it is still within living memory.
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I'm not happy with just repeating myself.
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Looking after a very sick child was the Olympics of parenting.
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And thus love makes fools of us all.
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It was the month of May and there was warm sunshine dripping through the holes between the clouds, like the sky was a broken blue bowl and a child was trying to keep honey in it.
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I could not stop talking because now I had started my story, it wanted to be finished. We cannot choose where to start and stop. Our stories are the tellers of us.
Chris Cleave
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Everyone carries the weight of WWII with them in their recent family history, and yet it is rarely spoken about within families, because veterans and survivors don't tend to talk.
Chris Cleave