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
Mind
Grain
Already
Maybe
State
Happiness
Hourglass
Running
Sifting
Past
Grains
States
Tipping

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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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... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.
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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 never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.
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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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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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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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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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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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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 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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Dogs are easy. If their tails are up and their eyes are soft, you're in.
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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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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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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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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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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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You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through.
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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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Not everyone out in a storm wants to be saved
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