Quote

Maybe happiness was an hourglass already running out, the grains tipping, sifting past each other. Maybe it was a state of mind.

Paula McLain

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Paula McLain
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 7
Author
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Fresno
California
Already
Maybe
State
Happiness
Hourglass
Running
Sifting
Past
Grains
States
Tipping
Mind
Grain

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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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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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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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Not everyone out in a storm wants to be saved
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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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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 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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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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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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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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... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.
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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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But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.
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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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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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The way I see it, how can you really say you'll love a person longer than love lasts?
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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 sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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I'd never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.
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