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But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.

Paula McLain

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Paula McLain
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 7
Author
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Fresno
California
Love
Terribly
Stupid
Makes
Things

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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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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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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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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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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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All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.
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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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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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I'd never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.
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... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.
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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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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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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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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 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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Dogs are easy. If their tails are up and their eyes are soft, you're in.
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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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