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She had loved him. He knew this he had never doubted it. But she had also asked him to kill her. If you love someone that much, you did not lay that sort of burden on him for the rest of his life.

Jodi Picoult

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Jodi Picoult
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: May 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Nesconset
New York
Jodi Lynn Picoult
Love
Rest
Life
Loved
Knew
Sort
Doubted
Someone
Lays
Also
Burden
Much
Kill
Never
Asked

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I start by mulling a question and before I know it, a whole drama is unfolding in my head. Often, an idea sticks before I know what I'm going to do with it.
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I learned a long time ago with you that folks who were trying to be kind would rather do it with a macaroni-and-cheese bake than any personal involvement. You hand off a serving dish and you've done your job - no need to get personally involved, and your conscience is clean. Food is the currency of aid.
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Jacob's room is the place entropy goes to die.
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She understood how a world jammed with phones, email, and faxes could still leave you feeling utterly alone.
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There's no way to explain to a child that the line between good and evil isn't nearly as black and white as a fairy tale would lead you to believe. That an ordinary person can turn into a villain, under the right circumstances. That sometimes we dragon slayers do things we aren't proud of.
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Sometimes we don't know we're dreaming we can't even fathom that we're asleep.
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Scars are just a treasure map for pain you've buried too deep to remember.
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I wondered why the head could move so swiftly while the heart dragged its feet.
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If you've lived through it, you already know there are no words that will ever come close to describing it, and if you didn't - you will never understand.
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Love was that way. You could not render it in black or white. It always came down to the strange, blended shades of grey.
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Just because you had every right to feel sorry for yourself didn't mean you ever took the opportunity to do so.
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...because he believed that if you wanted to get rid of a hole, you filled it. He had not realized at the time that there were all sorts of filler that took up space, but had no substance. That made you feel just as empty.
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Raw love, like raw heartache, could blindside you.
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She became whoever she needed to be to survive,but she never let anyone else define her.
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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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The human capacity for burden is like bamboo- far more flexible than you'd ever believe at first glance.
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