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The worst thing about loneliness is that it brings one face to face with oneself.

Mary Balogh

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Mary Balogh
Age: 80
Born: 1944
Born: March 24
Novelist
Writer
Abertawe
Thing
Loneliness
Brings
Lonely
Oneself
Worst
Face
Faces

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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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Tears never were worth the effort of crying them.
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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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But if one had everything one could ever need or want, what was left to dream of?
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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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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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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 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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He wished someone in the course of history had thought of striking that word and all its derivatives from the English Language - happy, happier, happiest, happiness. What the devil did the words really mean anyway? Why not just the word pleasure, which was far more... well, pleasant.
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I can be hurt, she said, only by people I respect.
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There is nothing worse, is there, she said, than a past that has never been fully dealt with. One can convince oneself, that it is all safely in the past and forgotten about, but the very fact that we can tell ourselves that it is forgotten proves that it is not.
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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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My happiness has to come from within myself or it is too fragile a thing to be of any use to me and too much of a burden to benefit any of my loved ones.
Mary Balogh
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Why do I want to run from happiness?
Mary Balogh
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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?
Mary Balogh
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Sometimes now was enough. Sometimes it was everything.
Mary Balogh
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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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Every moment is a moment of decision, and every moment turns us inexorably in the direction of the rest of our lives.
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Why did people assume that the beautiful among them needed nothing but their beauty to bring them happiness? That behind the beauty there was nothing but an empty shell, insensitive shell?
Mary Balogh