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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
Stop
Hate
Ever
Hurting
Wanted
Loving
Way
Absolutely
Couldn
Knew
Hurt

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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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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 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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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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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.
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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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Dogs are easy. If their tails are up and their eyes are soft, you're in.
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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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... 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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All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.
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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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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 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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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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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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Happiness is so awfully complicated, but freedom isn't. You're either tied down or you're not.
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