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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.
Kim Edwards
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Kim Edwards
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: May 4
Author
Novelist
Writer
Killeen
Texas
Love
Twelve
Bones
Memory
Died
Memories
Age
Father
Nothing
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Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement.
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Once, this whole world had been hidden beneath a shallow sea.
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She saw herself moving through another life, an exotic, difficult, satisfying life.
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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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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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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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Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.
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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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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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Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.
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Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.
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It's good to be in love.
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I love to swim, and I love being near water.
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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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After all these years, I feel so free. Who knows where I might fly?
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You missed a lot of heartache, sure. But David, you missed a lot of joy.
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This is what he knew that Paul didn't: the world was precarious and sometimes cruel. He'd had to fight hard to achieve what Paul simply took for granted.
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The thing is, I used to like that: feeling special because I knew something no one else did. It's a kind of power, isn't it, knowing a secret? But lately I don't like it so much, knowing this. It's not really mine to know, is it?
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The city of Pittsburgh gleaming suddenly before her . . . so startling in its vastness and its beauty that she had gasped and slowed, afraid of losing control of the car
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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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