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I think your vision gets better as you get older.

Jennifer Donnelly

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Jennifer Donnelly
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: August 29
Author
Novelist
Writer
Port Chester
New York
Thinking
Older
Gets
Vision
Better
Think

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A new word. Bright with possibilities. A flawless pearl to turn over and over in my hand, then put away for safekeeping.
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Things are NEVER what they seem, Pa, I thought. I used to think they were, but I was wrong or stupid or blind or something. Old folks are forever complaining about their failing eyesight, but I think your vision gets better as you get older. Mine surely was.
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Voice is not just the sound that comes from your throat, but the feelings that come from your words.
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There is an advantage to be found in most everything that happens to you, even if it is not immediately apparent.
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Sometimes, when you catch someone unaware at just the right time and in just the right light, you can catch sight of what they will be.
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Yeah. Sure. My brother's dead. My mother's insame. Hey, let's have a crepe.
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Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.
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Becuse God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.
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History is a Rorschach test, people. What you see when you look at it tells you as much about yourself as it does about the past.
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One expects decent people to stand up for the good of all. Decent people shut their doors and hide behind them as decent people do. Massacres could never happen if it weren't for decent people.
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Hope is the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard.
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Never take what's offered, always ask for more.
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The guitar's still around me. I slip it off and put it down. I want to feel him. To feel his breath on my neck. The warmth of his skin. To feel something other than sadness. Hold me, I tell him silently. Hold me here. To this place. This life. Make me want you. Want this. Want something. Please
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He pressed himself into me and kissed my neck, and it was as if everything strong and solid inside me, heart and bones and muscle and gut, softened and melted from the heat of him.
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The King walks. He nods. His glance is like God's touch - under it all things spring to life. A wave of his hand and a hundred musicians tear into the Handel, making a sound you've never heard before, and never will again. A sound that goes through you, through flesh and bone, and reorders the very beat of your heart.
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The greenest of pastures are right here on earth.
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She was his soulmate, as much a part of him as the very flesh and bone that made him. She was with him, in him, in everything he did. She was everything he wanted from his life, the very measure of his dreams.
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He's wearing boots, a kilt, and a long-sleeve tee. No coat, even though it's December. Beautiful people don't need coats. They've got their auras to keep them warm.
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It is hope, not despair, that undoes us all.
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Turn away. From the darkness, the madness, the pain. Open your eyes and look at the light.
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