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Half an ear cocked, something in me, all night, every night, is waiting for you to come home.

Lionel Shriver

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Lionel Shriver
Age: 67
Born: 1957
Born: May 18
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Gastonia
North Carolina
Margaret Ann Shriver
Margaret Shriver
Night
Home
Come
Every
Something
Cocked
Ears
Waiting
Half

More quotes by Lionel Shriver

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Giving anyone anything takes courage, since so many presents backfire. A gift conspicuously at odds with your tastes serves only to betray that the benefactor has no earthly clue who you are.
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Expectations are dangerous when they are both too high and unformed.
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I seem to remember even from when I was very young that when you loved someone you also hated them for making you love them, since loving someone is so incredibly humiliating.
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Desire is one of the burning experiences of human life.
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The secret is that there is no secret.
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The Web, the great time-killer that had replaced conspicuously passive television with its seductive illusion of productivity.
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...hoarders of guilty secrets are inevitably consumed with appearances.
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I have never in all my life considered you other people.
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I am vain, or once was, and one of my vanities was to feign that I was not.
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That boy hardly needed a mask when his naked face was already impenetrable.
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My own apathy is bone chilling.
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...whenever a woman describes a man as sweet, the dalliance is doomed.
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it is always difficult to impress the ignorant.
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Though surely to avoid attachments for fear of loss is to avoid life.
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It isn't very nice to admit, but domestic violence has its uses. So raw and unleashed, it tears away the veil of civilization that comes between us as much as it makes life possible. A poor substitute for the sort of passion we like to extol perhaps, but real love shares more in common with hatred and rage than it does with geniality or politeness.
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Kevin was a shell game in which all three cups were empty.
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I have no end of failings as a mother, but I have always followed the rules.
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Besides, I'd heard too many Karen Carpenter tales at Gladstone PTA meetings, and they often took the form of boasts. The prestigious diagnosis of anorexia seemed much coveted not only by the students but by their mothers, who would compete over whose daughter ate less. No wonder the poor girls were a mess.
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I was mortified by the prospect of becoming hopelessly trapped in someone else's story.
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Though it may be more romantic to picture the bereaved as gaunt, I imagine you can grieve as efficiently with chocolates as with tap water.
Lionel Shriver