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All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.

Paula McLain

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Paula McLain
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 7
Author
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Fresno
California
Heartbreak
Terrible
Game
Waiting
Games
Left
Kind
Paralysis

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You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through.
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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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Not everyone out in a storm wants to be saved
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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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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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The way I see it, how can you really say you'll love a person longer than love lasts?
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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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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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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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My life was my life I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.
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I'd never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.
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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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But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.
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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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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.
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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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Maybe happiness was an hourglass already running out, the grains tipping, sifting past each other. Maybe it was a state of mind.
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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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But when Bumby nursed, his fist clutching the fabric of my robe, his eyes soft and bottomless and locked on mine, as if I were the very heart of his universe, I couldn't help but melt into him.
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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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