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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.

Mary Balogh

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Mary Balogh
Age: 80
Born: 1944
Born: March 24
Novelist
Writer
Abertawe
Really
Rose
Indescribably
Mere
Layered
Flower
Petals
Everyone
Infinitely
Even
Shallow
Heart
Precious
Made
Complexes
Something
Complex

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Was memory always as much of a burden as it could sometimes be a blessing.
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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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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.
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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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Suddenly, and for the first time, he was at the center of his own life, living it and loving it.
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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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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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Why do I want to run from happiness?
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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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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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But if one had everything one could ever need or want, what was left to dream of?
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There is no happily-ever-after to run to. We have to work for happiness.
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The bad part is life continues. The good part is that the pain goes away.
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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?
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I have read somewhere that we often spend a lifetime searching for what we already have.
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Tears never were worth the effort of crying them.
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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.
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There is something infinitely better than happily-ever-after. There is happiness. Happiness is a living, dynamic thing, Eve, and has to be worked on every moment for the rest of our lives. It is a far more exciting prospect than that silly static idea of a happily-ever-after. Would you not agree? - Aidan Bedwyn
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I can be hurt, she said, only by people I respect.
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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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