Quote

Maybe Fate isn't the pond you swim in but the fisherman floating on top of it, letting you run the line wild until you are weary enough to be reeled back in.

Jodi Picoult

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Jodi Picoult
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: May 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Nesconset
New York
Jodi Lynn Picoult
Back
Swim
Enough
Letting
Wild
Reeled
Fate
Pond
Line
Ponds
Lines
Fisherman
Maybe
Floating
Running
Weary

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I could think whatever I wanted to, but realized that any promises I made myself were destined to be broken.
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You can widen the feet of a compass, but they are still attached at the top you can spin them away from each other, but you always wind up where you started.
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I wondered why the head could move so swiftly while the heart dragged its feet.
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Why are terms of endearment always food? Honey, cookie, sugar, pumpkin. Its not like caring about someone is enough to actually sustain you.
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This is love, I think. A place where people who have been alone may lock together like hawks and spin in the air, dizzy with surprise at the connection. A place you go willingly, and with wonder
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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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History isn't about dates and places and wars. It's about the people who fill the spaces between them.
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In nineteen minutes, you can mow the front lawn color your hair watch a third of a hockey game. In nineteen minutes, you can bake scones or get a tooth filled by a dentist you can fold laundry for a family of five. In nineteen minutes, you can stop the world or you can just jump off it.
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Here's my question: What age are you when you're in Heaven?
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But there's an enormous difference between an audience that's watching you because they can't wait to see what comes next and an audience that's watching you because they're waiting for you to fail.
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I'm always writing, even when I'm not at my desk. I write on my hands. I used to write on my kids' hands, too, but they don't let me any more. When I'm driving I sometimes write all the way up my arms.
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Torn between fear and something that resembled love, she wrestled with questions she never dreamed she would face: How could she leave? Then again, how could she stay?
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The legal system works really well, if you communicate a certain way. But if you don't, it all goes to Hell in a handbasket really quickly.
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Into the silence rips a sound that makes me let go of Max's hand and cover my ears. It is like the strafe of a bullet, nails on a chalkboard, promises being broken. It's a note I have never heard - this chord of pure pain - and it takes a moment to realize it is coming from me.
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The damage was permanent there would always be scars. But even the angriest scars faded over time until it was difficult to see them written on the skin at all, and the only thing that remained was the memory of how painful it had been.
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and he suddenly knew that if she killed herself, he would die. Maybe not immediately, maybe not with the same blinding rush of pain, but it would happen. You couldn't live for very long without a heart.
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Love [is] supposed to move mountains, to make the world go round, to be all you need, but it [falls] apart at the deatils. It [can't] save a single person.
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and yet, you never knew wwhat you were capable of until you arrived at that given moment. Life was just a whole string of spots where you continued to surprise yourself.
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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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