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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.

Paula McLain

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Paula McLain
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 7
Author
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Fresno
California
Skin
Believed
Skins
Meant
Night
Would
Love
Climbed
Gladly

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... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.
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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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Dogs are easy. If their tails are up and their eyes are soft, you're in.
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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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The way I see it, how can you really say you'll love a person longer than love lasts?
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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through.
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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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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 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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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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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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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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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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Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.
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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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