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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

More quotes by Paula McLain

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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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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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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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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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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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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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Not everyone out in a storm wants to be saved
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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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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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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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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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You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through.
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... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.
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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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My life was my life I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.
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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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But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.
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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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