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I do beg you to have some regard for my pride. A million years? I assure you I would stop asking after the first thousand.

Mary Balogh

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Mary Balogh
Age: 80
Born: 1944
Born: March 24
Novelist
Writer
Abertawe
Millions
Stop
Firsts
Assure
First
Million
Years
Regard
Would
Asking
Pride
Thousand

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Stop being so fruitlessly busy and dream. Use your imagination. Reach out into the unknown and dream of how you can enlarge your experience and improve your mind and your soul and your world.
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I would be consumed by you,' she said, and blinked her eyes furiously when she felt them fill with tears. 'You would sap all the energy and all the joy from me. You would put out all the fire of my vitality.' 'Give me a chance to fan the flames of that fire,' he said, 'and to nurture your joy.
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One day you will learn that love does not always betray you.
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If you have always suspected your sister of an inclination to madness, it will be my pleasure to confirm your worst fears.
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There is no happily-ever-after to run to. We have to work for happiness.
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I can be hurt, she said, only by people I respect.
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Everyone was a rose but even more complex than a mere flower. Everyone was made up of infinitely layered petals. And everyone had something indescribably precious at the heart of their being. No one was shallow. Not really.
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I'm terrified that I will never be able to put him from my mind. I don't love him but I'm afraid that he will make it impossible for me ever to love anyone else.
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Sometimes now was enough. Sometimes it was everything.
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I have always been a spectator of life, you know, never a participant. Never. But now I am. Today I am, and I an awed and deliriously happy. This is the adventure I asked for, the adventure I am having I will be forever grateful to you.
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Suddenly, and for the first time, he was at the center of his own life, living it and loving it.
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And he knew at that moment that love world never die, that it would never fade away altogether. The time might come when he would meet and marry someone else. He might even be reasonably happy. But there would always be a deep precious place in his heart that belonged to his first real love.
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I have read somewhere that we often spend a lifetime searching for what we already have.
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But parents, she supposed, were not the pinnacle of perfection their children thought or expected them to be. They were humans who usually did the best they could but often made the wrong choices.
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Life, she realized, so often became a determined, relentless avoidance of pain-of one's own, of other people's. But sometimes pain had to be acknowledged and even touched so that one could move into it and through it and past it. Or else be destroyed by it.
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It was so much more comfortable to be able to divide people into heroes and villains and expect them to play their allotted part.
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Was memory always as much of a burden as it could sometimes be a blessing.
Mary Balogh
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Love does not last forever, then? He asked me the same thing this morning, she said. No, it does not - not love that has been betrayed. One realizes that one has loved a mirage, someone who never really existed. Not that love dies immediately or soon, even then. But it does die and cannot be revived.
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Even friends need private spaces, if only within the depths of their own souls, where no one else is allowed to intrude.
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Have you noticed, she asked him, how we live much of our lives in the past and most of the rest of it in the future? Have you noticed how often the present moment slips by quiet unnoticed?
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