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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
Left
Kind
Paralysis
Heartbreak
Terrible
Game
Waiting
Games

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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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Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.
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Dogs are easy. If their tails are up and their eyes are soft, you're in.
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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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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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But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.
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Happiness is so awfully complicated, but freedom isn't. You're either tied down or you're not.
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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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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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To marry was to say you believed in the future and in the past, too-that history and tradition and hope could stay knit together to hold you up.
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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'd had my share of rain. My mother's illness ... had weighed on me, but the years before had been heavy, too. I was only twenty eight.
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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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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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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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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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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 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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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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