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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
Died
Memories
Age
Father
Nothing
Love
Twelve
Bones
Memory
More quotes by Kim Edwards
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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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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He had never even glimpsed her.
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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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Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.
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She saw herself moving through another life, an exotic, difficult, satisfying life.
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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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Either things grow and change or they die.
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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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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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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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Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.
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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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Your understanding of a place changes the longer you stay you discover more, and your own life gets woven into the fabric of the community.
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You missed a lot of heartache, sure. But David, you missed a lot of joy.
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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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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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His love for her was so deeply woven with resentment that he could not untangle the two.
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After all these years, I feel so free. Who knows where I might fly?
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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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