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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.

Paula McLain

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Paula McLain
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 7
Author
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Fresno
California
Way
Absolutely
Couldn
Knew
Hurt
Stop
Hate
Ever
Hurting
Wanted
Loving

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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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My life was my life I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.
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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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All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.
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Dogs are easy. If their tails are up and their eyes are soft, you're in.
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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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I'd never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.
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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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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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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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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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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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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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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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The way I see it, how can you really say you'll love a person longer than love lasts?
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Not everyone out in a storm wants to be saved
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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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Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.
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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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