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If it's us, she whispered, how come you get to decide? When he didn't answer - couldn't answer - she turned and stared out the front window. As it turned out, they were still in the parking lot. They hadn't gotten anywhere at all.

Jodi Picoult

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Jodi Picoult
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: May 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Nesconset
New York
Jodi Lynn Picoult
Come
Window
Parking
Front
Whispered
Answer
Hadn
Couldn
Gotten
Answers
Anywhere
Didn
Decide
Stills
Turned
Still
Fronts
Stared

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How do you walk into someone's life again after twenty-eight years? How do you pick up, when you were too young to know where you left off.
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maybe there is more to a person than a body and a mind. maybe something else figures into the mix— not a soul, exactly, but a spirit that hints you might one day be greater, stronger than you are now. a promise a potential.
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Even the most beautiful things can be toxic.
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One person's trauma is another's loss of innocence.
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It is so easy to presume that while your own world has ground to an absolute halt, so has everyone else's.
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Here's my question: What age are you when you're in Heaven?
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I didn't want to see her because it would make me feel better. I came because without her, it's hard to remember who I am.
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be a good listener, don't judge and don't put boundaries on someone else's grief.
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It was nice not having to be the one in control, for a little while. It was nice to be the one who was protected, instead of the one who'd been protecting eveyone else.
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She stares at me for a moment, and then she bursts out laughing. “You haven’t seen his perfect little wife and his perfect little girls. Believe me, Oliver, I’m not the great love of his life, the one he’ll never forget.” “You are to me,” I say.
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We are all, I suppose, beholden to our parents - the question is, how much?
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How could you go about choosing something that would hold the half of your heart you had to bury?
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This must be what an addict feels like, I think, trying to fight the pull of one last, quick read. My fingers itch toward the binding, and finally, with a sigh of regret, I just grab the book and open it, hungrily reading the story.
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Once you call something a story, it's set in stone. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end that can't be transformed, because by definition, if you do that, it's not the same story anymore
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I don't write the same book over and over - I think if I did that, I would stop writing. I couldn't write a series with the same character, and I couldn't write a romance novel over and over again that takes place at a different beach every year. That's not who I am.
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If you want something to be true badly enough, you can rewrite it that way, in your head. You can even start to believe it.
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And that was the greatest heartbreak of all- no matter how spectacular we want our children to be, no matter how perfect we pretend they are, they are bound to disappoint. As it turns out, kids are more like us than we think: damaged, through and through.
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The bottom line in both cases is that people don't change that no matter how charming you are and how fiercely you love, you cannot turn a person into something she's not.
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I think there are readers out there and I don't think the book is dead. And more importantly I don't think readers have to choose between literary and commercial fiction.
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Researching 'Lone Wolf,' I was amazed at how thoughtful and intelligent these animals are. There has never been a documented attack against a human by a wolf that wasn't provoked by the human.
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