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Even the most beautiful things can be toxic.

Jodi Picoult

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Jodi Picoult
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: May 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Nesconset
New York
Jodi Lynn Picoult
Beautiful
Even
Things
Toxic

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My first job was as an assistant in the local library. Self fulfilling prophecy?
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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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There is a gulf as wide as an ocean between should and want, and I am drowning in it.
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This was the reason there was music, he realized. There were some feelings that didn't have words big enough to describe them.
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Isn't it amazing how, when you strip away everything, people are so much alike?
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I leaned forward and kissed him. And again. As if I were passing him all those silent words I cound not say, the ones that explained my biggest secret: that I might not have OI but I knew how he (Adam) felt. That I was breaking apart, too, all the time.-Amelia
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Some people, they get down in a hole so deep they can't figure out what to hold on to.
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Did you ever wonder if the person in the picture is the same one you see when you look in the mirror? - That's the eternal question, isn't it? Are we born who we are, or do we make ourselves that way?
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Being a parent wasn't just about bearing a child. It was about bearing witness to its life.
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You don't need water to feel like you're drowning, do you?
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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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Just so you know, when they say once upon a time....they're lying. It's not once upon a time. Its not even twice upon a time. It's hundreds of times, over and over, every time someone opens up the pages of this dusty old book.
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It makes Faith think of a hammock in their yard, a web of rope that she thought would unravel the first time she leaned back on it, but that managed to support her all the same.
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I close my eyes, thinking that there is nothing like an embrace after an absence, nothing like fitting my face into the curve of his shoulder and filling my lungs with the scent of him.
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From that point of view, I realized that my hole was not miles deep after all. My father, in fact, could stand on the bottom and it only reached up to his chest. Darkness, you know, is relative.
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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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My mother moves so fast I do not even see it coming. But she slaps my face hard enough to make my head snap backward. She leaves a print that stains me long after it’s faded. Just so you know: shame is five-fingered.
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The best place to cry is on a mother's arms.
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She suddenly remembered studying the brain in science class- how a steel rod pierced a man's skull, and he opened his mouth to speak Portuguese, a language he'd never studied. Maybe it would be like this, now, for Josie. Maybe her native tongue, from here on in, would be a string of lies.
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Does fate ever play by the rules?
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