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Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.

Jennifer Donnelly

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Jennifer Donnelly
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: August 29
Author
Novelist
Writer
Port Chester
New York
Liars
Writers
Single
Every
Damned

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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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I've always admired your rather formidable will, your refusal to back away from difficulties, but sometimes strength isn't about perseverance. Sometimes it's about knowing when to quit.
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Yeah. Sure. My brother's dead. My mother's insame. Hey, let's have a crepe.
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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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I play until my fingertips are raw. Until I rip a nail and bleed on the strings. Until my hands hurt so bad I forget my heart does.
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But his words fall away. He looks confused. He looks flustered and sorry. Like you do when you run up to someone you think you know and take her arm and she turns around and you were wrong.
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She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.
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It has an L on it. L for love. See? It's the key to the universe, Dad. You said you were looking for it. You told Mom you were. I found it for you so you don't have to look anymore. So you can come home at night.
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I think your vision gets better as you get older.
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You can't argue with the dead, no matter what you say, they always have the last word.
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For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.
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There was a basket at her feet. She reached into it and lifted out the head of a young woman, a marquise. She wore Bourbon white to her death, but wears the tricolor now - white cheeks, blue lips, red dripping from her neck. Long live the revolution.
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Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.
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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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Hope is the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard.
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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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Who knew that listening to a guy sleep could be so much deeper than sleeping with a guy.
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I played a role. That is what actors do. But I played it too well. I went too far. And by the time I wanted to stop, to take a bow and leave the stage, it was too late.
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She was everything he wanted from his life, the very measure of his dreams.
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There is a ghost here. A lonely, heartbroken spirit. The ghost of everything that could've been and never was.
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