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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
Would
Love
Climbed
Gladly
Skin
Believed
Skins
Meant
Night

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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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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 never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.
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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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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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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.
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You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through.
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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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... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.
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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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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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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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Happiness is so awfully complicated, but freedom isn't. You're either tied down or you're not.
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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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My life was my life I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.
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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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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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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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