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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
Love
Climbed
Gladly
Skin
Believed
Skins
Meant
Night
Would

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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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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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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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To marry was to say you believed in the future and in the past, too-that history and tradition and hope could stay knit together to hold you up.
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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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My life was my life I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.
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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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Happiness is so awfully complicated, but freedom isn't. You're either tied down or you're not.
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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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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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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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Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.
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Not everyone out in a storm wants to be saved
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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'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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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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