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...bleak territory of the heart.

Kim Edwards

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Kim Edwards
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: May 4
Author
Novelist
Writer
Killeen
Texas
Territory
Heart
Bleak

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She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.
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Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.
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Its impossible to control the reception of your work - the only thing you can control is the experience of writing itself, and the work you create.
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He had never even glimpsed her.
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All that sunny afternoon, traveling north and east, Caroline believed absolutely in the future. And why not? For if the worst had already happened to them in the eyes of the world, then surely, surely, it was the worst that they left behind them now.
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Then she had been a fiancee, a young wife, and a mother, and she had discovered that these words were far too small ever to contain the experience.
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I love to swim, and I love being near water.
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Writing is always a process of discovery—I never know the end, or even the events on the next page, until they happen. There’s a constant interplay between the imagining and shaping of the story.
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A moment was not a single moment at all, but rather an infinite number of different moments, depending on who was seeing things and how.
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Each letter has a shape, she told them, one shape in the world and no other, and it is your responsibility to make it perfect.
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Once, this whole world had been hidden beneath a shallow sea.
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Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement.
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You can't spend the rest of your life tiptoeing around to try and avert disaster. It won't work. You'll just end up missing the life you have.
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He could hardly imagine anymore what his life would be without the weight of his hidden knowledge. He'd come to think of it as a kind of penance. It was self-destructive, he could see that, but that was the way things were. People smoked, they jumped out of airplanes, they drank too much and got into their cars and drove without seat belts.
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Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.
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Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.
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It wasn't right. He knew that, but it was like falling: once you started you couldn't stop until something stopped you.
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He'd kept this silence because his own secrets were darker, more hidden, and because he believed that his secrets had created hers.
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Norah watched him, serious and utterly absorbed in his task, overcome by the simple fact of his existence.
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In some deep place in her heart, Caroline had kept alive the silly romantic notion that somehow David Henry had once known her as no one else ever could. But it was not true. He had never even glimpsed her.
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