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Bleeding heart, he’d called her. Well. He should know. He’d been the first to rip it to pieces.

Jodi Picoult

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Jodi Picoult
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: May 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Nesconset
New York
Jodi Lynn Picoult
Bleeding
Pieces
Called
Wells
Firsts
Well
First
Heart
Rip

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How can you be a survivor, when you can't even remember the war?
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sometimes words are not big enough to contain all the feelings you are trying to pour into them.
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You don't love someone because they're perfect, she says. You love them in spite of the fact that they're not. I don't know how to respond to that it's like being told after thirty-five years that the sky, which I've seen as a brilliant blue, is in fact rather green.
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I wonder if you've got a minute. I have many minutes, all of them used toward a common purpose.
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There's a problem with wounded birds, Cassie, Connor said. Either they fly away from you one day, or else they never get better. They stay hurt no matter what you do.
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Although you hadn't asked why, it had less to do with you not noticing than with you not wanting to hear the answer.
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Loneliness is a mirror, and recognizes itself.
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You signed no contract to become a parent, but the responsibilities were written in invisible ink. There was a point when you had to support your child, even if no one else would. It was your job to rebuild the bridge, even if your child was the one who burned it in the first place.
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It's the child who's supposed to cry, and the mom who makes it all better, not the other way around, which is why mothers will move heaven and earth to hold it together in front of their own kids.
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You're unwilling to go out on a limb because it just might break underneath you.
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Jacob's room is the place entropy goes to die.
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Normal, in our house, is like a blanket too short for a bed--sometimes it covers you just fine, and other times it leaves you cold and shaking and worst of all, you never know which of the two it's going to be.
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You get through it, you just never get over it
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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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There is no one truth. There’s only what happened, based on how you perceive it.
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Even the most beautiful things can be toxic.
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You know, the mind is a remarkable thing. Just because you can't see the wound doesn't mean it isn't hurting. It scars all the time, but it heals.
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When you care more if someone else lives than you do about yourself- is that what [love is]?
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The music we listen to may not define who we are. But it’s a damn good start.
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If he says jump, she doesn't even ask How high? She goes out and buys a pogo stick.
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