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Books could be an incredible adventure. I stayed under my blanket and barely moved, and no one would have guessed how my mind raced and my heart soared with stories.

Paula McLain

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Paula McLain
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 7
Author
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Fresno
California
Heart
Barely
Mind
Stayed
Would
Incredible
Adventure
Moved
Soared
Books
Raced
Stories
Guessed
Book
Blanket

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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.
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I knew that I could hate him all I wanted for the way he was hurting me, but I couldn’t ever stop loving him, absolutely, for what he was.
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Dogs are easy. If their tails are up and their eyes are soft, you're in.
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Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.
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My life was my life I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.
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Not everyone out in a storm wants to be saved
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I also liked to look around at the houses surrounding the park and wonder about the people who filled them, what kinds of marriages they had and how they loved or hurt each other on any given day, and if they were happy, and whether they thought happiness was a sustainable thing.
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It was our favorite part of the day, this in-between time, and it always seemed to last longer than it should--a magic and lavender space unpinned from the hours around it, between worlds.
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But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.
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More and more I find myself at a loss for words and didn't want to hear other people talking either. Their conversations seemed false and empty. I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.
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This was my one brush with love. Was it love? It felt awful enough. I spent another two years crawling around in the skin of it, smoking too much and growing too thin and having stray thoughts of jumping from my balcony like a tortured heroine in a Russian novel.
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I miss good old-fashioned honorable people just trying to make something of life. Simply, without hurting anyone else. I know that makes me a sap.
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Why is it every other person you meet says they're an artist? A real artist doesn't need to gas on about it, he doesn't have time. He does his work and sweats it out in silence, and no one can help him at all.
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There was only today to throw yourself into without thinking about tomorrow, let alone forever. To keep you from thinking, there was liquor, an ocean's worth at least, all the usual vices and plenty of rope to hang yourself with. Love is a beautiful liar.
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She was also incredibly confident, with a way of moving and talking that communicated that she didn't need anyone to tell her she was beautiful or worthwhile.
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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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I would gladly have climbed out of my skin and into his that night, because I believed that was what love meant.
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